The Story of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes
by Rusty Tater Tot
Summary: Have you ever wondered how Sherlock and Molly met? What their friendship was like? What happened to change that? Why they're like they are? What happened when Sherlock faked his death? What will happen now?
1. The Beginning

Once upon a time, there was a young girl. Little Molly Hooper was quiet and sweet and shy, always trying to pick up as much information as possible while keeping her head down at the same time. She grew up in a peaceful neighbourhood, entertaining herself not with dolls and tea parties and dress-up, but with experimentation. She was always taking notes and reading books to learn more about whatever she needed to. Naturally, all of this studying at such a young age produced a very smart, talented young girl. She went to college at Uni, majoring in pre-med. Rather than being friends with everyone there, she became close friends with a few certain people. One of these people was Sherlock Holmes.

The friendship between Miss Hooper and Sherlock was an interesting subject to several people, for more reasons than one. Sherlock was a genius and hated everyone, always impressing people as he insulted them. The fact that Molly had actually formed a positive relationship between him was quite fascinating. He was also a drug addict. Little Molly Hooper, who, even by the time of college, hadn't come out of her shell, was fast friends with a drug addict.

Rather than his habits rubbing off on her, Sherlock being around Molly had quite the opposite effect. Molly had a strong influence on Sherlock. All it took was one glance from her to get him to shut up, smile more, stop slouching, or to "stop being a prick, Sherlock." It took a little more from her to get him to stop with the drugs, but, to her, it was well worth the effort.

Molly couldn't be there for him all the time, though. Her mother grew deathly ill and Molly took temporary leave to go and visit her for what might have been the final time. Despite her efforts to stay in contact with Sherlock, in the month that she was gone he stopped contacting her. When she finally returned, he was nowhere to be found.

She had gone back into her dorm, only to find a dusty note on the bed that read:

_My dearest Molly,_

_Do not try to find me. Hopefully, you will understand the importance of this step in the plan and not try to find me. If you are reading this, then nobody there has noticed my absence in the last month, which is excellent. I have left college. Do not try to find me._

_ Fondest memories, Sherlock Holmes_

She had, of course, disregarded his warning and gone off to find him. It took her a while, but eventually she was able to drag him out of the drug den he had apparently been living at for the past several weeks and get him cleaned up. She never figured out what he meant by his 'plan' or why he had left in the first place. Her only conclusion was that he was high when he wrote it.

Years passed. Sherlock and Molly both graduated. Molly began working at St. Barts, and Sherlock became a detective. Both of Molly's parents died. Molly developed a little 'crush' on Sherlock, which made him uncomfortable enough to remove her from his list of close friends. Now she was merely a casual acquaintance, not even meeting the level of 'peer'. She dated around a little bit, but never got into a serious relationship. She remained the quiet one. Sherlock remained a prick. He faked his own suicide, and during that time she got into a more serious relationship and then got engaged. Sherlock came back, and, within two months she was single again. Mixed signals came from every angle, and she stood straight and tall without a word.

She was terribly depressed, but wouldn't have admitted it for anybody's world. Not a person saw through her. Nobody tried to help her, or accept her. Nobody loved her, and nobody would have noticed her if she disappeared. Nobody knew what she had gone through. Nobody except for one person.

And that's where our story begins.


	2. Chapter Two

Molly rubbed her eyes blearily. It was five in the morning, and she had slept less than four hours the night before. Now she was being called in early to help clear up a 'brutal double murder'. She was not excited by the prospect of looking into all of it, not just because she would have to clear up the bodies and fill out all the forms, but because a brutal double murder meant that Sherlock Holmes would be there.

Molly hadn't spoken to Sherlock since John's wedding, where he had switched from his 'using-her-as-a-servant' mode to 'ignoring-Molly-Hooper' mode. She wondered how that worked, in his head. Was he aware that he was doing it? Molly shook her head tiredly; of course he was. Sherlock was hyper-aware of _almost _everything.

Molly finished her coffee and filled her cat Toby's food and water bowl. She sighed at the prospect of missing yet another day with her cat because of work. "You know," she said to Toby, "I'm thinking of retiring and becoming a full-time cat lady."

Once in the mortuary of St. Barts, Molly pulled on some plastic gloves. She already had her lab coat on, and today had pulled her nut-brown hair back into a ponytail. She was inspecting the first body, that of a teenage girl, when she heard voices echoing through the quiet hallways outside.

She paused for a moment, listening closely. "-can't go in right now, it hasn't been cleared to the public-" one of them was saying. Molly cracked a smile; Greg Lestrade couldn't keep Sherlock out of here, not even if he wanted to. Not that he did want to-Sherlock would probably be able to solve this case in minutes flat. Quickly she wiped the smile off her face-just in time, too, for moments later the door swung open and in walked Sherlock Holmes and Officer Lestrade.

Molly pretended to be taking notes as they approached the table in order to look Sherlock over. She saw him almost every day and yet he never ceased to catch her breath with his spectacular jawline, icy blue eyes, and perfectly formed hair. "Molly," he said, turning around. "What are the facts so far?"

"A disabled teenager, named Maria Jones, was locked in a completely empty room in a flat on the third floor," Molly spoke softly. Her voice was a bit higher than usual, but Sherlock seemed not to notice. "The door was barred, and the only other way out was a window. She was sitting in her wheelchair when she was discovered. Maria was covered in blood, completely soaked-there are the clothes she was wearing, over there-but there are no detectable wounds on her body, except a scar on her upper arm. Her wheelchair was completely clean. The window was broken, and we think that she might have-"

"Shut up," said Sherlock. Molly dropped her gaze and continued to inspect the body. Sherlock started speaking quickly. "The glass from the window was on the inside of the room, indicating that the window had been broken from the outside. However, there weren't _any _fingerprints on any of the shards of glass. Even if it had been broken from the inside, the wheels on the girl's wheelchair had been removed. She couldn't have broken the window." He paused and inspected the scar on Maria's forearm.

"Over ten years old. As I was saying, she couldn't have broken the window. No wounds on her body, but even one shard of glass could have easily cut her, and she was sitting amidst thousands. The person who broke the glass did a hell of a good job cleaning up after himself, which would have been made a lot more difficult if the girl were in there watching him, which indicates that she wasn't in there when the glass was broken. All of this causes reason to suspect that, when she was put in the room, the girl was already dead or close to it, otherwise, she could have called out the window."

At this point, Sherlock paused and lifted a strand of blood-soaked hair from the girl's head. "This is her blood, but it isn't fresh. Whoever did this had access to her old blood." He turned to Molly and tilted his head. "You said uncle. Who's her uncle?" Molly nodded to the other bag. "There was a note," she said. "A confession." Her voice was much higher now, and Officer Lestrade glanced at her before asking Sherlock, "You said him. You said him twice. Is it a man?"

Sherlock, obviously annoyed, turned to Lestrade and said, "No, Garren, it was a sparkling hippopotamus that eats rainbows. Yes, of course it's a man. And you call yourself the 'chief inspector' or whatever.." Molly pressed her lips together and unzipped the other bag, revealing a hairy, fat man whose face was a purplish color. "He hanged himself," she told Sherlock. "Left a suicide note admitting that he had killed-" Sherlock took one glance at the man and said, "Murder." He clapped his hands together and said loudly, "Someone murdered him and his niece, tried to make it look like it was a suicide. He left us a message, too. If that were all it was, he wouldn't have broken the window. There's something linking them. Why wasn't the girl with her parents? Why did he choose these particular victims? Where did he get the girl's blood? What did he do with the wheels off her wheelchair? Ah, finally a clever one-it's Christmas!" He clapped his hands together again and practically danced out, Lestrade following him, leaving Molly to clear up the mess and become the mourner of Maria Jones and her uncle.


	3. Chapter Three

It was now noon. Molly had worked hard all morning, attempting (and failing) at ignoring Sherlock and his cleverly insulting remarks. She had just been dealt the final blow, with Sherlock telling her to lay back on the crumpets, and she was heading home for lunch close to tears.

Lestrade had gone back to his office area around nine, leaving Molly to deal with Sherlock alone. About an hour later, John Watson had arrived, which helped a little. Taking snide remarks from Sherlock was not an easy way to spend one's morning. Her plan was to go back and spend an hour recovering with Toby and an episode or two of Glee.

She was walking down the hallway, towards the exit, when he popped up next to her. "Where are you going?" Sherlock asked. Molly was debating ignorance when he spoke again. "You can't ignore me for longer than…" he checked his watch. "8.42 minutes." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and quickened his pace to keep up with Molly. "And you're going home. I was only making 'small talk' before requesting your assistance in my latest case. Meet me at 221B Baker Street in…" he checked his watch again. "Fifteen minutes. Shouldn't take too long to get this solved. I'll see you there." Without any more conversation, he turned and wandered off.

Molly didn't even have time to go back and say hi to Toby. She headed straight for Baker Street, and she hated herself for it. She knew that even if Sherlock told her she was the ugliest sad sack on the planet, and he hated her, and he wished she had left him to die in college rather than saving his life so he wouldn't have had to look at her ugly face, even if he said horrible things to her… She'd still come whenever he called. And he knew it, too. And he was using it against her.

Fifteen minutes later, Molly arrived at 221B Baker Street. She stepped into the flat to find Sherlock sitting at the table, looking through his microscope. A blood sample lay in a small vial next to him, and a strange smelling rag on the table beside him. An eyeball lay in a glass nearby. The air smelled strangely like cigarette smoke.

"What do you need me for?" asked Molly after a few seconds of standing there without Sherlock saying anything. He still said nothing, instead he pointed silently at the teapot. Molly sighed a little bit and started boiling water. A few moments later, John walked into the kitchen. "Molly, how are you do-are you making tea?" At Molly's response he said, "Blimey, Sherlock, invite someone over and let them make you tea? What kind of host are you?"

"I asked her to.." said Sherlock absently. "It's not like she can do anything else useful." John shot Molly an apologetic look and took a sip of the tea in the mug she had just handed him. Everyone sat quietly for a moment before John sniffed the air and said, "Is that cigarette smoke?" Sherlock, without looking up, said, "Molly."

John paused for a moment, glanced at Molly, then looked suspiciously at Sherlock. Still watching Sherlock, he leaned over and sniffed Molly. He rolled his eyes, and leaned over and sniffed Sherlock. "My… Sherlock, we've talked about this!" He looked at Molly with a 'can-you-believe-this-guy' look and continued. "Smoking. Kills. You."

Sherlock said quietly, "Maybe I'll have a little more fun in hell." John seemed quite annoyed, and, after a moment of consideration, said, "What are you going to do down there without us?" Sherlock finally shoved his microscope aside, put his elbows on the table, fingertips together, and said, "WORK."

Molly cleared her throat and began to speak. "Sherlock," she said, "Smoking causes-" "Molly, you don't need to do this. Leave it to me. As his one friend, I'd say I have the most influence over him. Not that you aren't great, but… It's Sherlock. He doesn't care what you have to say." Molly stared at him, a million things running through her mind. She could see the eyes on her, so she forced herself to smile. "Of course," she said. "No, I completely understand." John nodded, went over to Sherlock's coat, and pulled the cigarettes out of his pocket. He walked down the hall to the loo with them and shut the door behind him.

Molly blinked back tears. She had once had a history with Sherlock, something that closely resembled friendship. That had all changed when Sherlock had tried to overdose in college, and now here she was. A stranger in what once might have very well been her own home. "Good…" she started, but she didn't trust herself to finish without breaking into tears. She smiled thickly and waved a little to Sherlock. She turned and willed herself to wait until she was in the cab to fall apart. As she was walking out, she got the nerve to turn around and finish. "Bye," she said vaguely. As she left, she could feel Sherlock's eyes on her.

Molly was all cried out by the time she got home. She composed a quick email to her boss, saying she was going to take the rest of the day off. She cuddled up on the sofa with Toby and the latest episode of Glee, closing her eyes and remembering the day she had saved her best friend's life, and wishing with all of her might that it hadn't been her.

_**Author's Note:**_

_How do you like it so far? I know it's only on the third chapter, so you don't know nearly all that I do about where it's leading, but I'd like to know how you're enjoying it so I can adjust my levels of cliff-hangers and weirdness. Thanks!_


	4. Chapter Four

WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGER ALERT

After a long, hard day, Molly decided that the best way to relax would be to take a hot bath. She had spent the entire afternoon ignoring accusatory texts from her co-workers, saying that she had left them to deal with all the work while she got a break. She also ignored the two texts from John, apologizing for Sherlock and asking if she was okay.

She got into the bath and almost immediately slipped into a trance-like state. She allowed her mind to blissfully wander, skirting over memories of times she had lost. She made cookies with her mother. She played Cluedo with Sherlock. She went to the zoo with her parents and her little magnifying glass to study snakes. She went to prom-by herself. She went into a drug den and dragged out Sherlock. The last memory made her tense up considerably, so she climbed out of the bathtub and wrapped a towel around herself.

She had pushed the memory out of her mind for years, and she could still remember every tiny detail. Sherlock's rumpled shirt. His uneven breathing. His glassy eyes. She remembered talking to him the whole way home, prattling about unimportant things. Most of all, she remembered the kiss.

It had happened so fast. She had dragged him out of the old building and driven him back to the college, and, when they got there, he'd said quite happily, "You're too good to me, Molly Hooper." She'd ignored it and tried to get him cleaned up when he leaned over and kissed her full on the mouth. It tasted like cigarettes and pot and who knows what other kinds of drugs, and he wasn't in his right mind, but still… Her first kiss. "I love you, Little Molly," he had giggled. That was the turning point for her.

She'd as good as fallen in love with him, but he had no memories of the night whatsoever, and she would never bring it up again. The next day he had called her up to talk about her mum and dad, and that was the last time he had initiated a conversation with her in college. Here she was, by herself, all because she was too scared to talk about that day. Too scared to remind him how close he was to death. Too scared to tell him about their not-so-passionate moment. Too scared that he would laugh it off and tell her it had never been real.

Molly didn't realize she was crying until she looked up and found herself on the floor. The towel was still wrapped around her, very tightly. Too tightly. She tore it off and cried even harder, looking at her hips. At the scars buried so very deeply in them. Scars that had been there for decades, that had never faded. Thick and white against her skin. She traced them lovingly, but at the same time with so much hatred. She traced the words 'IM SORRY' that had been etched into her skin. She remembered so many occasions that had resulted in a contribution to these words. Her mum's funeral. She had cried so hard, not because of her loss, but because she was so preoccupied with Sherlock that she hadn't even noticed her mother's absence. And her dad's. He had died so suddenly. A suicide. She hated herself then for not recognizing it, and she still hated herself today. And Sherlock. So much Sherlock.

Being rejected. Being left in the dust. A friendless orphan. The saviour's saviour who was hated by the saviour. Alone. Alone forever and alone for always. Nobody would ever recognize her as the girl who had once been beautiful, who had once been loved. She didn't have a story that mattered, her person didn't matter. If she disappeared today, who would notice? Nobody important. The police would search for a week, a few people would be invited to a get-together, her cat would be sent to a shelter somewhere, her few possessions would be donated somewhere or other, and her flat would be rented out to someone new. John would go to a funeral for her. Greg Lestrade might go. Denise, her partner, would. Anderson might. Sherlock? No. He would think it below him, he would say that she wasn't going to care. Molly smiled a little as she almost heard him whining, "She's dead anyway, what does it matter if I was invited to go to her funeral?"

Molly paused for a moment, and removed the thick wooden bracelet from her wrist, revealing the deepest scars of all. She traced their familiar pattern, the thick marks. She remembered the night they had appeared.

It was the week after Sherlock had kissed her. She had just realized he was downright ignoring her, so she started sending him little notes. Nothing deep, mind you, just little things so he knew she was still thinking about him. He had finally responded to her last one, telling him that she would always be there for him. She remembered the deeply wounding words his response had contained.

_Molly,_

_You need to stop trying to contact me. I don't care what you have to say about anything. I don't know why you went and got me, I don't know why you had to save me. You did, and that's all fine and dandy for you, I bet you're feeling like a real hero, aren't you? I wish you would just leave me alone. You're nothing but a sycophant, a friendless girl who latched onto whoever accepted her. I should have seen it sooner, but I suppose that's the blindness of love. Leave me alone, selfish, silly girl. Don't try to contact me again._

_ -S. H._

It had broken her heart. Molly had no idea what to say, what she had done to deserve this. She read it over and over and over again, and, although she didn't know his reasoning, she knew one thing: Sherlock Holmes would never lie to her. The logic was that she was all of the things he had said. So she obeyed him and didn't try to contact him again. But she never stopped thinking about him.

She ended up deeply cutting into her skin with a pocket-knife he had once given her, 'self-defense,' he called it. 'Not that you need it,' he had said. 'Not with me here.'

Molly once again traced the scars, and remembered the terror her roommates had conveyed as they drove her to the hospital. 'Keep her head up,' they said. 'Hold her arm up.' And the hushed whispers that they tried to keep from her. 'Did they break up?' 'I don't think they were together.' 'Molly probably thought that they were, and he made it clear that they weren't.' Molly ignored it all. The doctors had done a good job stitching her up, but the scars were permanent. Molly was fine with it. She didn't see anything wrong with having Sherlock's name etched into her skin for the rest of her eternity.

If Sherlock had heard about the whole thing, he never said a word. He just continued to ignore Molly, once she was out of the hospital. She was fine with it. She eventually graduated and moved on with her life, reliving the scars every night. Sherlock had never said anything to her about it. She assumed he had moved on. And he never said otherwise.


	5. Chapter Five

When Molly woke up the next morning, she couldn't fall back asleep. The emotions from the night before were still bubbling inside of her. She rolled over in her bed to check the clock. 0447 hours. With a groan, Molly woke herself up and got ready to start her day.

Molly had a three day break from work starting that day, so as she was eating breakfast she made a list of what she wanted to get done. "I'll repaper the bathroom, it's getting gross in there. I'll need to take Toby to get his claws trimmed, and I want to look into a new brand of cat food for him." After writing these three things down, Molly scanned her brain for something, _anything _else to do while she was off.

"I guess this proves that you have no life," she said to herself, laughing a little. She went about her business, and by evening she had finished everything on her list.

The next day she had absolutely nothing to do, so she decided to walk around the city a little bit. She didn't know what made her do it, but, the next thing she knew, she was walking into a shop and buying a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. She stepped into the street and lit one, slowly dragging it towards her face and finally placing it in her mouth.

It being her second cigarette in life, it choked her for a moment, but soon enough she was able to smoke it well enough.

Several hours later she was walking down the street, carrying two grocery bags in one hand and holding a cigarette in the other, when who should she bump into but John Watson. "How are you, Molly?" he asked, smiling. Before she could answer, he saw the cigarette in her hand. "Great, now _you're_ smoking?" he said in an exasperated tone.

"Nervous tick," said Molly. "What am I going to tell Sherlock?" said John, acting as though he hadn't heard Molly. "He's going to use this against me in the fight for his life." "I thought you said he didn't care what I did," said Molly, almost bitterly. "He doesn't care what anybody does, if it affects him in a positive manner. If they're doing something wrong, he makes sure that everyone knows he can do it, too."

"Just don't tell him, then," said Molly. John chuckled a bit. "I wish it were that easy," he said, "but it's Sherlock. The second I walk through the door he'll be smoking and then he'll say, 'but Molly smokes!' " Molly laughed a little at John's expert impression of Sherlock. She then said goodbye and went home.

She hadn't been at her flat for ten minutes when the door swung open and Sherlock came tearing in. "Molly!" he barked. Molly, who had been sitting on the sofa with Toby, Glee, and a lit cigarette, jumped up. "Sherlock!" she exclaimed angrily. "You can't just come marching in here, it's not allowed!"

In one swift motion Sherlock grabbed the cig from her hand and crushed it. "Sherlock!" said Molly even more angrily. "Stop it! What are you doing?" Sherlock turned and simply said, "Smoking kills you. Give me the rest of them." Molly blushed a little but stood her ground. "I can't," she responded. "That was the last one."

It was Sherlock's turn to be angry. "You smoked an entire pack in one day? Even I don't smoke that much!" Molly straightened her back. "What business is it of yours?" Sherlock flushed. "I don't think you know just what you're getting yourself into."

His words brought back a single memory from their college days. Molly had been invited to a concert with a friend, and Sherlock had warned her not to go, using the words, "I don't think you know just what you're getting yourself into." Molly had fought with him and gone anyway. Sherlock, of course, followed her and drove her home when the guy had ditched her for some fakey popular girl.

Molly violently shook her head and returned to the present. "I _can_ take care of myself, Sherlock! I know exactly what I'm doing. Now, get out!"

In reality, Molly had no idea what she was doing. But Sherlock didn't need to know that. She went out and bought another pack of cigarettes, and one by one extinguished them on her arm. "What's one more scar?" she kept asking herself.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hello, everyone. I hope you're enjoying the story so far. I just have one or two things I want to make clear. I do not want anyone to think I am promoting cutting, smoking, or burning. These are not things I want anyone to get into. They can really screw a person up (trust me on this one, y'all). I don't want anyone to read this and decide to try to cut, burn, or smoke._

_Please post some reviews telling me what needs to improve. Thanks!_


	6. Chapter Six

The next day Molly woke up early again. She decided to have a day in. She started to bake some bread, stopping now and then to give Toby a treat. Hours flew by with Molly doing work around the house, organising it and cleaning it and baking. She then went to go and buy a little plant to keep around the house.

"How ya' doing, sweetheart?" the woman at the counter inquired. Molly smiled and nodded absently. Once she was outside of the plant nursery she lit a cigarette. On the cab ride home, it started to rain. By the time she got home, it was pouring.

Molly went inside and turned on the television to no particular channel. She then lay down on the couch and fell asleep.

Molly woke up several hours later with a vicious headache. She turned off the television set and took some medicine. She ate a salad, and then sat down with her journal to update it on the past few days.

_So far my vacation has been lovely. Really splendid. I've been thrilled at being able to stay home with Toby and just relax. Unfortunately, not everything can be perfect. He dropped by yesterday to warn me about the direction my life was heading in. He's one to talk! Honestly, sometimes I think he exists only to annoy me. He doesn't seem to do much else. And yet, at the same time… I love him still, and it's hell for me. Why do I have to be the one to bear the burden? I tried to help him, and here I am, still trying so hard, while all he does is call me fat and tell me how to live my life. I've got news for you, Sherlock: I don't have a life. It's silly, really, but sometimes I honestly think he's told everyone about our past relationship and asked them to disrespect it as much as possible. Of course I'm just being paranoid. I know he knows how I feel. It's Sherlock. He knows everything. So he's just choosing to ignore it. God, I hate him, but at the same time I know I would die for him. And honestly, sometimes I think that I will. I'll die in order for him to realize just how much he hurt me. I guess that's it, then. Good night._

The next day Molly woke up feeling excellent. She had gotten enough sleep the night before, her headache was gone, and, for the first time in weeks, she wasn't feeling absolutely horrible.

She got up and made herself a nutritious breakfast. She brushed her teeth and hair and got dressed. She fed and brushed Toby before she grabbed her keys and went out the door.

Of course, going to work after a three day vacation would make anyone feel down. She'd only been there for a half hour when Sherlock and John showed up. Sherlock was even more of a jerk than usual, and John wasn't feeling too well, so he stayed near the restrooms most of the time.

"Molly, if you have enough equally distributed energy to move your overweight body, would you hand me that testing tube?" Molly sighed and handed him the vial he wanted. "Thank you for exerting yourself so much," said Sherlock. Molly turned her back without a word and continued typing at her computer. A few minutes later, Sherlock said, "Molly, look up the rust measures in the dirt in Cardiff, please." Molly paused and turned. "What does the dirt in Cardiff have to do with your case?" Without missing a beat, Sherlock said, "Nothing to do with my case. Aren't you from Cardiff?"

Molly could miss such an implied insult. She slammed her computer shut and spun around to face Sherlock. "Why do you constantly feel the need to hurt me?" she demanded. Sherlock didn't even look up from his papers. "Why do you want to make me feel like this? Why do I have to be the one you target? Is it just because I'm such a horrible person?" Sherlock still didn't look at her. "Look!" shouted Molly. "I'm sorry I saved you all those years ago! I'm sorry I ruined your beautiful plan! I'm sorry you hate me so much!"

Sherlock, still not making eye contact, said, "I'm not."

That did Molly in. Without thinking about it, she ran out the door to the mortuary and tore up the stairs. All the way to the roof. She was out of breath by the time she got there. "Sherlock was right," she thought. "I am overweight. I'm fat, and ugly, and stupid, and gross, and undesirable. I'm alone."

She went over to the edge and looked over it. "That looks high," she thought. "Coward," she said to herself. "Molly!" she heard the shout. She turned and saw Sherlock anxiously moving towards her.

"Leave me alone," said Molly. "Molly, please," said Sherlock. Molly turned and clumsily pulled herself onto the ledge.

_**Author's Note:**_

_dun-dun-dun-dun-dun! Awkward cliff-hanger. Okay, here's the deal. I've already got the next chapter written, but I want to see some reviews before I post it. So, if you're reading this and want to see more, post a review. It only has to be a word long._


	7. Chapter Seven

Molly stood at the edge of the building, looking over the edge. Her voice was tearless, but it had a sharp, bitter edge to it. "Remember this, Sherlock? You stood here, at the very edge of this building, and you asked me to help you. I'd always have helped you get what you needed, you know. All you ever had to do was ask."

"Molly." Sherlock's voice was pleading, painful. "Molly, _please_, stop this now. I'm asking you now. I'm asking you no, I'm _begging _you, please don't do this." Molly paused for a moment, and Sherlock started babbling in relief.

"See, that's alright. You'll be fine. I'm going to take you home, and a good night's sleep will make you right again. It'll all be normal." Molly turned around, and Sherlock jumped back in surprise when he saw the tears pouring down her face. "That's just the thing, Sherlock. It'll never be alright."

When he didn't say anything, she continued. "Everyday I've woken up and wondered why I shouldn't crawl back under the covers. Every meal I ask myself why I don't just stop eating and starve. Every night when I get home and see the scars all over my body, I have to question my existence. Why am I still here?"

"Because you matter," Sherlock said, and his voice cracked. He wasn't crying, but you could easily tell that his composure was cracking. "No, Sherlock," said Molly. "No, it was because of you."

Sherlock looked confused, and started to say something, but Molly cut him off. "I woke up every day to see you. I ate every meal quickly so I would see you. I kept myself alive in case you ever needed me, and now I realize you won't. And it's fine." "Molly," Sherlock broke in. "Molly, you've saved my life more times than I can count. Let me do the same for you."

"The difference is, Sherlock," said Molly. "I love you. You never loved me. I love you and I would die for you, and I did die for you. I threw away my life for you. Maybe not threw away-I gave my life to you." Molly started to twist the wooden bracelet off of her hand. "I just wish I had more to give."

Finally having removed the bracelet, Molly tossed it towards Sherlock, who caught it in his hand and studied it for a moment before looking up again. Molly waved at him, revealing her jagged, deep, uneven scars. "You were so smart, yet you never said a word, Sherlock," Molly said. A tear streamed down Sherlock's face. "No, Molly," he said. "You were the one who never said a word. We have a lot to talk about. Get down from there."

His face was sad, but it quickly changed to confusion and then horror as he realized that Molly was taking steps backwards. "Goodbye, friend," she said, and tears were dripping down her face. With her arm still in the waving position, she took one final step and immediately dropped out of sight.

"NO, MOLLY!" Sherlock lunged forward and leaned over the edge, watching, watching, watching, as in slow motion Molly fell down the height of the building and crumpled against the ground. Sherlock turned and raced down the stairs, reaching her body in record time. There was already a large number of people gathered around.

"Move it!" Sherlock said forcefully, and he finally made it to Molly's body. "Molly," he said, and then paused. He could hear sirens getting closer. "Molly," he said again. "Molly, you were wrong. You were wrong, and I need you to be alive so that I can tell you so. Molly.."

The emergency workers quickly picked up Molly's body and loaded it onto the ambulance. They drove off with their sirens blaring, leaving Sherlock standing in a puddle of Molly's blood in the middle of the road, looking terrified, confused, and heartbroken.


	8. Chapter Eight

Sherlock sat by Molly's bedside, watching her sleep. She seemed to not be breathing, but the steady beeping of the heart monitor told him otherwise. He tightly clutched her small hand in his, occasionally running his thumb over the deep scars buried in her wrist.

"Oh, Molly…" he murmured. A moment later he grinned; at the sound of his voice the heart monitor had started beeping much faster. "What else was I expecting?" he laughed quietly to himself. A moment later a nurse walked around the corner brandishing a needle. "Excuse me," she said to Sherlock, and stepped around him to inject it into Molly's medical bag. Sherlock watched her intently.

"She's not poisoning her, mate," came the sudden voice from behind him. Mentally cursing himself for not noticing their arrival, Sherlock jumped up to greet John and Lestrade. "John. Gabriel," he said, nodding curtly. "Greg," said Lestrade, glaring at him. John ignored Sherlock's greeting and moved around him to view Molly's body.

"Oh, God.. I don't know what to say.." he said in horror. Lestrade was equally befuddled by Molly's state. "I had no idea," he said. "Nor did I," said John. They both looked at Sherlock. Rather than meeting their eyes, he stared at Molly intently. "I didn't, either," he finally said… untruthfully. Lestrade and John seemed to believe him, though.

"Sherlock, you have to come back and get some sleep," John said. It was several hours later, and Sherlock hadn't left Molly's side once. "I can sleep here, John," said Sherlock simply. "No, you-bloody hell, Sherlock, come home with me for-listen, you aren't doing either of you any good by staying here." "What if she wakes up in the night? She _needs _me," insisted Sherlock.

After another half hour of arguing John headed back to 221B Baker Street. Alone. Sherlock was close to exhausted after his day, but he refused to close his eyes. Not too long after John left, he found himself retreating into his mind palace. "Stay awake, Sherlock," he demanded of himself. "Molly needs you."

Molly, however, did not need him. She didn't wake up during the night, and the next day when John returned she still was not conscious. "Sherlock, go get some food and take a leak and go back to the flat and take a rest. I'll stay here if it's so important to you," John said. Sherlock, however, refused to budge, so John left.

About an hour later he returned, this time holding a bag. Out of it he pulled a sandwich and a coffee for Sherlock, and a baby monitor. "Here," he said. "I figure if you left one of these here and took the other back to the flat with you, as long as you can hear the monitor beeping you'll be fine."

It took some convincing, but Sherlock finally left (bearing one of the baby monitors), warning John to stay with Molly until he was back. For about fifteen minutes there was peace. John's phone suddenly rang, shattering the silence.

"Hello?" John said. Sherlock's voice came through, seemingly distraught. "Alright, Sherlock, tell me what's wrong." He paused, listening, and then said, "So you're upset because… You made tea and it wasn't the same as Molly's tea?" He listened again and said, "Bloody hell, Sherlock. I get that you're upset, but really?" Sherlock's voice could be heard shouting something on the other line, and John looked shocked. "No, Sherlock. Too soon."

After he had hung up, he leaned over and looked at Molly. After a moment or two, he said, "You better wake up soon, Molly Hooper, or we'll _all _attempt suicide."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Thank you so much for your reviews! I was so glad to receive them._

_to __AlphaSapphire412__, I'm sorry this was so sad to you. I have to find a way to get the message through. And, as I regret to inform you, in the chapters that I have already written (but not posted) there is plenty more sadness._

_to __MoonBard__, thanks so much! I'm glad you like it. And yes, I always have two or three chapters written in advance when I post, and I try to post at least once a day. That might change once school is back up, but my summer break is in three weeks, so rest assured that I will always have another chapter for you._

_Thanks for reviewing!_


	9. Chapter Nine

It had been four days since Molly's hospitalization. She improved a little every day, and she slept on, unaware of the turmoil in the waking world.

"Sherlock, for the last time, you _cannot _sleep in a hospital. Not tonight, not tomorrow night, not any night ever!" Mycroft's voice rang out. John stood behind him with his arms crossed. Sherlock, still sitting by Molly's bed, did not look up from his book. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard, Mycroft. Not only have I been sleeping here since Thursday, I will continue to sleep here until Molly no longer needs me," he said. "Sherlock," hissed Mycroft. "She doesn't need you. She's _asleep. _She doesn't need anybody while she's asleep." "What if she wakes up and there's nobody here?" asked Sherlock.

John broke in at this point. "That's what the doctors and nurses are for, mate." When Sherlock didn't respond, he continued. "You need to come home."

Forty-five minutes later, John and Mycroft had left. Sherlock triumphantly remained behind, reading his book. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but he actually did want to go home. But at the same time, he didn't want to leave Molly. So he read on, checking on Molly every five to ten minutes, and bothering the nurses with stupid questions.

He slept on his chair when night fell, waking periodically to make sure Molly was fine, and ate when he got hungry. Every day somebody would stop by to stay with Molly while Sherlock went back to the flat to get some rest and eat and bathe and all that. Despite their promises to stay as long as he was gone, Sherlock always returned within an hour of his departure.

Molly's physical injuries were healing quickly. The gash on her head was still there, but much less deep, and her leg seemed to be considerably better, as well. Despite all of this, she still wouldn't wake up. As time passed, Sherlock left her for shorter and shorter periods of time, and seemed to always be watching her. John had even overheard Sherlock reading a book to her.

Soon four days turned into a week, and then two. Sherlock ignored all of his cases, and everybody's pleas to come home. He ate and talked less every day, and his sleep was interrupted, too. The nurses began to complain, and finally he was convinced to return home, as long as nobody touched the baby monitor and he was still allowed to come during the day and the nurses would call him if anything changed.

About three weeks after the incident, Sherlock and John sat in their kitchen. John was drinking tea while Sherlock sat and read. "What are you reading, anyway?" John asked. "I've never seen you as transfixed with a series as you are now." Sherlock paused, sighed, and held up his book, revealing the cover. John snorted into his tea. Sherlock glared at him. "What?" he asked defensively. "It's just…" John grinned before continuing. "Nancy Drew? Really? Isn't she that blonde detective?" "Yes, and she's an idiot," said Sherlock, returning to his book.

They both sat in silence for a few minutes. The phone suddenly rang, breaking the silence. John glanced at it. "It's the hospital," said Sherlock, watching the phone as though it contained the plague. John leaned over and picked it up. "Hello?" he said, then paused, listening. Sherlock rose from his chair and slipped on his coat. "Yes, of course," said John. Sherlock grabbed his scarf from the hook and adjusted it around his neck. "Alright, then. Thank you for calling us." He hung up the phone and turned around.

"Sherlock, it's okay, you don't need to go over there right now," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "A visit to the hospital from me is far overdue," he responded. John looked confused. "Sherlock," he said, "you were there just this morning." "But I'm not there now, John!" said Sherlock, and he walked out the door. John shrugged on his coat and followed Sherlock.

"We're so glad you found time to stop by," said Doctor Wilson. "Of course, Doctor," said John, eyeing Sherlock from where he stood. "Are there any updates on Molly's condition?" Doctor Wilson sighed. "I'm afraid not," she said. Sherlock watched her from his seat next to Molly.

"This is actually quite alarming," the doctor continued. "She is recovering perfectly. Her head wound is completely healed, her leg is doing wonderfully, her brain waves are completely normal, there's nothing wrong with her blood pressure or heartbeat." John listened intently.

"She is, aside from her emotional condition, completely healthy," Doctor Wilson said. "There's no reason she shouldn't be awake right now." "So…" said John, turning to glance at Molly's body. Sherlock rose and approached the two. "So, she is, by the definition of the hospital… deemed comatose."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hi, guys! I have the next several chapters written ahead, and chances are I'll post two or three more today (Sunday, __April 12, 2015__) before the weekdays begin again. Chances are I won't be posting as much on Monday-Friday, but I'll try to get a couple of chapters in. Thanks so much for reading this!_


	10. Chapter Ten

The door slowly clanged open. John walked into the small room. Sherlock was sitting on the bench, leaning up against the wall. When the door opened, he looked towards it. "John! Excellent!" he said, jumping up and walking towards the door.

"Sherlock," John said, putting his hand out to stop Sherlock. "Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking?" "She said Molly wouldn't wake up," said Sherlock. John stared at him. "So you _attacked _her? Sherlock…" John sighed and rubbed his temples. "Sherlock, that's illegal. Next time, you'll get arrested. Really arrested." "And you'll bail me out. Simple as that," Sherlock smiled. "You don't know that I'll bail you out," John pointed out. "You're here now, aren't you?" Sherlock put his hands in his pockets and strolled out the door, whistling cheerfully.

Once back at Baker Street, John put the pot on for some tea and sat down with the newspaper. Sherlock pulled out his laptop and immediately began typing. They sat like this for some time, until finally John finished his newspaper. "Er… Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked curiously. "I'm finding a cure for being comatose," responded Sherlock without looking up.

This was how everyday went for Sherlock and John. John would go about his day normally, and Sherlock would sit for hours straight at the kitchen table researching. After about three days of this, John finally demanded Sherlock's attention. "Please, just… work on a case or have a smoke or go for a walk or _something_?" he begged of Sherlock. Sherlock didn't look up. John grew frustrated. "Sherlock!" he barked. "You've been working on this bloody coma thing for seventy-two hours straight. You haven't slept, you've barely eaten, you haven't showered-" at this John wrinkled his nose. "_Please_."

Sherlock, still typing, said, "Every day, every _hour_, it becomes less likely that Molly will wake up. Every passing moment she slips further and further away from reality, shying away from the attempts of those so-called doctors that are nursing her. If I wait longer, she will either die never seeing the light of day again, or she will wake up with extensive brain injury, have no idea what happened, and try to kill herself again. At least here I'm _helping_."

With this last sentence, Sherlock's tone of voice became almost pleading. John looked at him and realized with a start that Sherlock was almost in tears. John didn't bother him about his research after that.

The next day, however, Doctor Wilson gave them some startling news. "She's not doing worst by any standards, but she isn't improving, either. We went ahead and tested her GCS yesterday-" John cut her off. "What's 'GCS'? " he asked. "Glasgow Coma Scale," said Sherlock, who was sitting by Molly as usual. "It scores on three levels." He looked at the doctor. "And?"

Doctor Wilson took a deep breath. "And," she said, "Miss Hooper here scored five out of fifteen." Sherlock leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. John expelled a lungful of air. "And… that's bad?" he asked.

Doctor Wilson turned to him. "The Glasgow Coma Scale tests on three levels. Best eye response, best verbal response, and best motor response. With each test, you are scored. One point is the lowest given, and the highest varies," the doctor explained. "You can score anywhere between three and fifteen overall, three being the worst, and fifteen being the best. Miss Hooper scored an average of two. Her overall score was five." John closed his eyes. "What does that mean for Molly?" he asked. Sherlock, however, was the one to answer. "It means that the hospital doubts that Molly will ever come back from the depths of her slumber, and they would like to discharge her as soon as possible to make room for their next patient."

Sherlock and John sat in their flat, discussing the situation at hand. "I'm sure, if I weren't so stressed out by all of this, I could wake Molly in a heartbeat," said Sherlock. John rolled his eyes. "If doctors have been trying for hundreds of years, why should you be able to in a matter of days?" "Oh, please," said Sherlock, waving his hand. "I'm smarter than all of those doctors put together." Secretly, John couldn't help but agree.

Sherlock jumped up suddenly and started pacing around the room, his hands folded behind his back, speaking quietly to himself. John leaned back and closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander. It wasn't until the door slammed sharply that he was yanked out of his reverie, leaving him to wonder where Sherlock had gone.

Several hours later, Sherlock returned to a very worried John. "Sherlock, where the hell have you been?" John demanded. "I called your cell four times!" "I told you where I was going before I left," said Sherlock, sitting in his chair. "It isn't my fault you weren't paying attention." John waited, his arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently against the ground. When Sherlock didn't say anything, he sighed. "Well?" he asked.

"Molly is being released tomorrow," said Sherlock without looking up from his laptop. Startled, John asked, "Wh-How did you manage that?" Sherlock gave him a wilting look. "How do you think I managed that?" There was a pause in the conversation, then Sherlock said, "I'm bringing her here."


	11. Chapter Eleven

In the next twenty-four hours, Sherlock somehow got access to a hospital bed, complete with a feeding tube hanging next to it. He set it very neatly in the flat's living room, underneath the window. John was against it at first, but after a while he realised that he couldn't argue with Sherlock, so the next day Molly came to stay at 221B Baker Street.

As inconvenient as having a hospital in his flat had seemed, John had to admit, it was nice to have Sherlock there 24/7. John had been nervous when the nurse had sent such a long list of instructions, but, as Sherlock was doing everything himself (to insure that it was "perfect for my-for Molly"), John was pretty relaxed about everything now.

Sherlock insisted on sleeping on the couch next to Molly, and by this time John figured that it would be pointless to argue. He went upstairs to bed, leaving Sherlock reading to Molly.

The next morning, John woke up early. Remembering yesterday's events, he ran down the stairs and into the sitting room. Sherlock lay on the couch, his eyes closed. "Poor git, he was exhausted," thought John. He grabbed a blanket to cover Sherlock. As he was putting it over him, Sherlock's eyes opened. "John?" he asked stupidly, his eyelids heavy with exhaustion. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock," said John, as he turned and went to make some tea.

"John," Sherlock whispered. John turned around to see Sherlock sitting up, the blanket around his shoulders, leaning forward so that he was almost touching Molly. "Sherlock?" John asked, slightly concerned. "John, she's waking up," said Sherlock urgently. John rushed over to him and bent to inspect Molly.

Still bent over her, he said to Sherlock, "sorry, mate. She's still just as unconscious as she was yester-" Straightening up, he saw that Sherlock was fast asleep, still sitting up. John looked again at Molly and then went back to his tea.

An hour or so later, when John was going through emails on his computer, Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly. He sat quite still for a moment, and then jerked forward quickly, looking Molly in the face.

John watched him from his chair. Seconds later, Sherlock fell back, disappointed. He then noticed John. "Oh, John," he said awkwardly. "I was just, erm, checking to see…" his voice died out. He and John sat in silence for a little bit, before John rose. "I'm going to visit Mike Stamford today," he told Sherlock. "Eat something."

Sherlock stayed on the couch watching Molly for a little bit before getting his violin. He stood with it under his chin, staring at Molly. He finally held up his bow, put it in position. He closed his eyes tightly and started to play.

He hadn't even played for ten seconds before he dropped his bow with a cry. Placing the violin on John's chair, he knelt on the ground. He rested his head on the edge of Molly's bed and wept.

As a calming method, he started to talk. "I'm so afraid," he said. "Afraid of everything. Afraid you're going to wake up and go back and start this whole thing over again. Afraid that everytime I see you you'll have fresh scars on your arms and legs. Afraid that someday, purposeful or not, you'll bleed dry, and I'll have to see your body, cold and empty." He paused, his usually sharp eyes clouded over with tears.

"I'm afraid that you'll wake up a different person. A person who feels she has nothing to live for. A person who decides to move a million miles away. Anything different from what you were won't be as good." Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back. "But even that would be preferable to the alternative. Never seeing you wake up. I'd never see you smile, or cry, or shout at me. Your eyes would never glow like they used to. I'd have to see you lying there, lifeless, as you wasted away."

Sherlock smiled just a little bit. "Do you remember in college, when I disappeared to that drug den for a little while, before your mother's funeral? I told you not to come get me, and you did anyway. I suppose that's kind of the same thing. You watched me slowly kill myself, and you couldn't do anything about it. The difference is, you were my friend then." A tear runs down the bridge of Sherlock's nose.

"It's not your fault we're not friends, now, you know. I knew what you were going through-in college, after college, all these years. I knew about the cutting and the drugs and the depression in general. I had to leave. I couldn't stand it. I couldn't save you, and I couldn't stand to watch you die before my eyes. I suppose that's just one of the many ways you're superior to me. And you were wrong, you know."

Sherlock traced his name on Molly's arm. He winced as he imagined the physical, mental and emotional pain she had to have gone through in order to dig a blade that deeply into her skin. "You were wrong," he said again, this time more softly. "I do love you, Molly Hooper. I love you too much for my own good. Yours, either. I suppose it's too late to tell you that. I had all these years, and I'm only strong enough to say it when you're dying."

He smiled bitterly. "That's how it is with us, isn't it. How it's always been. I'm only strong when you're weak. You give me all I need to be strong. At your own expense. You gave me your life. It's been enough to keep me alive all these years. And I _do _appreciate it. Molly Hooper, I love you."


	12. Chapter Twelve

Sherlock was talking to Molly. Again. He had formed the habit shortly after John had left to visit his sister Harry for a few days. Mrs. Hudson came up every day with some food for Sherlock, and to make sure he wasn't planning anything too horrible.

Having Molly at Baker Street was both good and bad. It was good because all of Sherlock's friends (and arch-enemy, in Mycroft's case) rested assured that he wouldn't leave Molly's side, and, in extension, the flat. It was bad because Sherlock, who was refusing any and every case, was constantly bored. Luckily, with Molly's presence, Sherlock wasn't _dangerously _bored.

Sherlock wasn't bored enough to accept Mycroft's company. He had taken to stopping in every few days to see Molly and, presumably, to check on Sherlock, although he had never admitted that part of it. Every time he stopped by, Sherlock was right in the middle of practising violin.

For the most part, Sherlock was left alone, and this was how he liked it. In one of Mrs. Hudson's reports to John she mentioned that every time she walked past their flat she could hear Sherlock talking inside. "And not like he talks to everyone, oh no," she had said. "He's talking just like he's got someone in there. Someone he respects. Like Nancy Drew."

Sherlock ignored her comments, Mycroft's visits, and John's calls. He was perfectly content to sit inside his flat all day drinking tea and talking to Molly.

"I find it annoying," he said to her one day, "how I have very obviously taken a brief break from my investigating, yet all these people keep on calling up anyway, thinking they're going to get special treatment or something."

And one day, while he was watching television, Sherlock said, "Look at these people. I've never played before, but it can't be _that _difficult to predict the movement of the ball. There's no wonder that they're losing." Of course, Molly slept on, but Sherlock was quite convinced that she could hear them. John never did quite understand Sherlock's reasoning behind his insistence that Molly heard everything they said, but his reasoning was, "since when have I ever understood anything Sherlock said?"

However, when he received an excited call from Sherlock, he did have to accept the fact that Molly could undoubtedly hear them.

"Sherlock? I can't talk now, I'm with Harry and we were just-"

"I don't care, listen to this. I was talking to Molly and her finger twitched."

"Her finger twitched?"

"Yes, her finger."

"Forgive me if I don't understand the momentum of this. Sherlock, I've really got to-"

"I was talking to her, and her finger twitched, so I said, 'Can you hear me?' and her finger twitched again. Then I said, 'Twitch your finger three times if you can hear me.' and she twitched her finger."

"Three times?"

"Yes, three times."

"What does it mean?"

"It means, John, that while you're there 'socialising' with your sister like a-"

"Sherlock!"  
"Socialising with your sister, our friend Molly Hooper is waking up!"

Sherlock was thrilled with this new development, and spent most of everyday talking to Molly. He tried out a few different experiments and verified that her finger twitching was indeed her response to his questioning. She grew tired easily, and at first could only twitch her finger a little.

As the days wore on, however, she grew more and more strong. Soon she could move not only her finger, but both of her hands. Sherlock spent time studying this. By the time John returned, Sherlock had come up with a "fool-proof plan to wake Molly up!"


	13. Chapter Thirteen

At first, when Molly had been brought in, Sherlock had kept to himself. Quietly sitting next to her, whispering to himself. Now, it was hard getting him to shut up. He talked to John and Mrs. Hudson and Molly and Mycroft and even his parents, who happened to be visiting.

Mr. and Mrs. Holmes were very understanding about the whole scenario, but when John told them how little Sherlock had left the flat, they insisted he accompany them on a day out.

When they had finally gotten Sherlock out of the flat, John sat in his chair sipping tea, relaxed for the first time in weeks. He watched a little on the telly, and spoke a little to Molly.

Molly was also doing much better. Her GCS was now at nine. After his inquiries at the hospital, John came to realise just how monumental that was. Sherlock was unimpressed with how she was improving, but that didn't make him any less happy with her recovery.

Molly now responded to voices quite well. She smiled sometimes, and her eyes opened occasionally. She spoke softly to herself, and, though nobody understood her words, they took it as a sign that she was getting better.

After about thirty minutes of telly, Mrs. Hudson came up to keep John company. "It's so nice, Sherlock's parents taking him out like that," she said. "It's good that he has such kind parents. I don't remember mine very well at all. My mum died when I was quite a young girl, maybe fourteen, and my dad just wanted me out of the house. I married very young, and Mr. Hudson was nice at first, but pretty quickly I began to see another side of him, you know."

John sat and relaxed in the company of another sane human being. Before too long, though, Mrs. Hudson had to go meet an old friend, and John was once again alone. He stayed with Molly for a little bit, because she was much more active today, but soon he decided that she would be fine if he left her, so he went out to the store.

By the time John returned several hours later, he had developed quite a headache. He set the groceries on the counter and went to lay down. Whether intentional or not, he fell asleep in a matter of minutes, and slept for quite a few hours.

He was awoken at around 1830 hours by a frantic Sherlock tearing around his room. "Sherlock…" John groaned, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. "Mate, what are you doing." Sherlock jerked straight up, spun around, and saw John. "John!" he said, and he looked him up and down. "Due to the rumpling of your bedclothes, I'd say three hours, so you weren't involved…" Sherlock muttered to himself quickly before turning around and racing out. John heard a door slam.

John tried to fall back asleep, but he soon found that he couldn't. Angrily, he pulled himself out of his bed and walked down the stairs into the kitchen. "Dammit, Sherlock!" he hissed when he saw all of the groceries he had bought earlier strewn around the room. He gathered them all together and put them away, carefully avoiding the jar of teeth in the refrigerator.

After he was done in the kitchen, John walked down the hall to Sherlock's room. "Sherlock?" he said. When there was no answer, John cracked the door open. "Sherlock?" he asked again, but there was still no response.

John walked into the sitting room. Sherlock was not sitting on his chair where he normally was. John pulled his phone out of his pocket and started to dial Sherlock. He froze right in the middle of his number, and his phone slipped from his hand. It crashed against the floor.

John rubbed his eyes, wondering if they were deceiving them. When he reopened them, nothing had changed. John slowly moved forward and rested his hand on the hospital bed in the middle of his flat. The _empty _hospital bed.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hey, guys! I hope you're enjoying this! I try to update it at least once a day. This update was put up on Monday, April 13, 2015, for those of you who don't want to look at the info page. Thank you so much for reading! I hope you like it!_

_**to **__**AlphaSapphire412**__**: Thank you so much for your reviews! It's nice to know you like it!**_

_If you have any comments, questions, or suggestions, please review!_


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Molly was having a very strange day. It had started when she woke up in 221B Baker Street, aka the home of her ten-year crush and tormentor, Sherlock Holmes. Luckily for her, he was nowhere to be seen. She decided she would just head back to her own flat quietly, but she soon discovered that her feet didn't work properly.

Then she noticed the feeding tube. Getting freaked out, she had anxiously dragged herself out the door and towards the exit, hoping to hail a cab or something. Quite soon she recognised the flaw in that plan. Molly was exhausted. She could barely take another step.

Mrs. Hudson had come to her rescue, bringing Molly in and setting her on the couch before she rushed off to who knows where. After a while, Molly heard Sherlock running around calling for her, but she felt much too weak to respond.

Now here she was, sitting on the couch in John and Sherlock's flat with, of course, John and Sherlock sitting across from her, watching her intently. Molly felt very self-conscious, but, as she could hardly move, she wasn't in a position to leave.

"Well?" asked Sherlock, breaking the silence in the room. "Well?..." Molly probed. "Well, how are you feeling?" "Tired.." yawned Molly. "And nauseous. Although, that might just be the part of me that's realising I attempted suicide." "And almost succeeded," added John unhelpfully.

"Let's drop that part of it, John," said Molly. Sherlock then spoke again. "Yes, let's drop it. Instead, let's discuss where to go from here." "Where to…" Molly said slowly, working through his words. "That's simple. I'm going home. I don't care where you go." "Home?" asked Sherlock threateningly. "You can hardly expect to wake up after a month and a half and _go home?_ You aren't in a stable condition yet!"

"You can't keep me here forever, Sherlock," warned Molly. Sherlock muttered something under his breath. John sighed. "I'm going to make a cuppa," he said, standing. Molly sat and rubbed her temples. Sherlock watched her for a moment before saying, "That is a horrifically large zit you have there, Doctor Hooper." Molly stared at him for a moment, mouth ajar, before saying, "You know, Sherlock, I have enough I have to deal with right now without your pointing out my flaws, thank you very much." To Molly's pleasure, Sherlock blushed slightly.

A moment later she groaned. "God, I'm exhausted," she said. "That's to be expected," Sherlock said. "You've been asleep for over a month; your system isn't used to being awake." Molly groaned again and tiredly rose from her chair. "Where are you going?" asked Sherlock, alarmed. "To the bathroom, Mr. Holmes," said Molly. "Oh," said Sherlock. "I suppose that's also supposed to be expected." "No shit, Sherlock," muttered Molly as she exited.

When she returned, Sherlock was typing on his computer, looking frequently at the screen. "I'm confused," he said, as she sat down. "What?" Molly asked jokingly. "The great Sherlock Holmes, confused?" "By your facial acne," said Sherlock. "Sherlock, we've been over this before!" Molly said forcefully. "I. am. unable. to. discuss. this. right. now."

Sherlock watched her for a moment before looking back at his computer screen and typing some more. His eyes jerked back to Molly when she took a deep, ragged breath. "I'm okay," she said in response to his questioning look. "Just lost my breath for a minute there." Sherlock kept quiet for a minute before saying, "So, about that pimple."

Molly jumped up and stormed into the kitchen. Sherlock could hear her demanding tylenol from John in a loud voice. "For a headache!" he heard her snap in response to John's, "what's wrong?" Sherlock smiled a little and took note of this on his computer.

A minute or two later John and Molly returned to the sitting room, both with a cup of tea. They took their seats and everyone sat in silence for a time. Several moments later, John noticed Molly rubbing her eyes viciously. "Are you alright there, Molly?" he asked. "Yes, of course," she replied. "My eyes are just a bit dry."

Turning to Sherlock, she said, "But I suppose that's perfectly normal, isn't it, Sherlock. My eyes being closed all this time, naturally the first time I open them they'll be rather dry." "Yes, I suppose one might consider that the reasoning behind it," said Sherlock. "I, however, know better." "Oh?" inquired Molly. "Yes," said Sherlock.

"Being the brilliant detective I am, I've worked out the reasoning behind all of your current… deformities." Molly scoffed, and the detective paused. "Sorry…" said Molly, sounding not sorry at all. "Continue."

"Exhaustion, dryness of the eyes, headaches, nausea, violent mood swings, often urination… Tell me, Molly, have you missed your menstrual flow this past month?" Molly blushed slightly, but stood her ground. "How would I know?" she demanded. The detective nodded. "True," he said. "I have been monitoring for you. The answer is no." Ignoring Molly's sudden tomato-like appearance, he pressed on. "All of this combined points-"

"Sorry to interrupt, mate, but, if you think about it, all of this combined points to her _comatose state_," said John. Sherlock, without missing a beat, said, "In some cases. But with Molly…" he paused. John, impatient, said, "Yes?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Isn't it obvious?" John crossed his arms and tapped his foot infuriatingly against the side of his chair. Sherlock sighed. "Ordinary people are so _clueless_!" he exclaimed. "Sherlock…" warned John. Molly sat silently in her chair, clutching its arms so tightly you would have thought the room was literally spinning, and her face had paled to a paste-like shade.

Sherlock groaned and threw his hands up into the air as though to say, "it's obvious!" Raising his voice ever so slightly, Sherlock looked at John and said, "Molly is pregnant."


	15. Chapter Fifteen

All had been silent at Baker Street since the afternoon. John, feeling the awkwardness hanging in the air, had thoughtfully remained at the flat to help relieve any tension between Molly and Sherlock. Sherlock, however, was nowhere to be seen, which made John's job that much easier. Molly more than made up for Sherlock's absence.

"For the last time, Molly, you aren't leaving!" John said forcefully, holding her back with his arm. Molly spun around, her eyes bright with anger. "Don't try to keep me here, John Hamish Watson!" she shouted.

"I opened my eyes for the first time in over a month an hour ago, and in that hour I've learned that I attempted suicide, slept for a month and a half, have no memories from the past _two _months, which means I have no idea who the father of my child is! _And _I'll bet that nobody fed Toby!"

John tried to comfort the sobbing woman in his living room. "There there, Molly," he said in a falsely cheery voice. "It'll be okay. Greg has your cat, you're still alive, and I'm sure that Sherlock will help you find out who it was… who you were with before the accident."

"No, he won't," said a voice from behind them. Turning, John saw Sherlock wearing his coat and his scarf. "I'm going out," he said, walking smartly by John and Molly and making his way down the stairs.

"What do you mean, you won't help Molly?" John asked. "Our friend Molly?" Sherlock, without turning, said, "I mean I won't help her." John turned to Molly, who had dissolved into fresh tears. Setting his jaw, he marched after Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" he demanded. Sherlock turned with a scowl. "Sherlock, what the hell?" John demanded of his friend. "This whole time you've been talking about waking her up, and now-" "Now she's awake," said Sherlock. "I understand what happened, and I have to leave now." "Sherlock!" John was angry now. "Why won't you help her?" "It isn't my business. I'm not getting involved where I don't have to be," said Sherlock.

John stared at him, fury apparent on his face. " 'Where I don't have to-' Sherlock, is that all she means to you? Someone you _have_ to get involved with?" "She's ordinary. Just like everyone else," said Sherlock, his face impassive. "You… You machine!" John shouted. "I suddenly understand why Molly tried to kill herself!"

Sherlock's face remained stony and hard. John progressively found it harder and harder to not punch it. "I know!" he screamed, trying to wind Sherlock up. "You're scared to help Molly because you know what will come of it!" Sherlock did not move. "You loooove her!" John leered. "I heard you tell her so yourself, when she was so close to dying! You don't want to be a man and take responsibility for your own actions."

Sherlock still hadn't changed his facial expressions. "You don't know what you're talking about," he whispered, and John was pleased to see that his composure was cracking. "You know what, I think I know exactly what I'm talking about," John declared. After a moment of silence, John spoke again. "I'm going to take Molly home, where she won't have to be around… _this_."

John walked back into 221B for Molly, leaving Sherlock standing on the sidewalk, ashen.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Molly was so relieved to be away from 221B Baker Street-and Sherlock. Late the night before, John had helped her pack up all of her little things and taken her not to her flat, but to Mary's.

Mary was very kind about it all, not talking about everything for the first hour or so, and then talking about it for hours with Molly. Finally, after Mary had been completely caught up, they talked more about the baby.

"So, you don't know who the father is?" asked Mary hesitantly. Molly sighed. "Actually," she said. "I think I do have an idea. But he never actually liked me in the first place; it was a drunken one-night stand." "But for the sake of the baby…?" Mary said. "No," said Molly. "If I'm right about the father, and I'm sure I am, then trust me when I say that he wouldn't be the best role model for a child."

"Yes," Mary agreed. "Anyone who would drunkenly hook up with some random girl and not show up if she fell off of a building and went into a coma probably _isn't _the best role model." She kindly ignored Molly's slight blush, and continued. "Besides, you'll have so much help with this baby you won't even realise that the daddy isn't there until Baby is at college."

"What about me, though, Mary?" asked Molly quietly. "Am I the best role model?" Cutting off Mary's response, Molly continued. "Don't forget, I was also involved in that one-night stand, and I'm the one who threw myself off of the building. Obviously, I won't be providing the safest environment."

"Molly Hooper, I'm surprised at you," scolded Mary. "You are the smartest, sweetest, softest little girl I've ever known. You're innocent and compliant, you have a nice flat, a nice cat, and money. You have a good job and lots of friends. You love children." Mary smiled kindly at Molly. "You'll do great."

Molly looked unconvinced, but she smiled anyway. "Thanks, Mary," she said. "You're the best." "I know I am, love," said Mary. "Now go to bed!"

Mary and Molly spent the next morning lying around the flat relaxing. They watched telly, Molly arranged a doctor's appointment for herself, and Mary went out for a few hours and came back with Toby and a rather large bag of cat essentials.

Molly was thrilled to have her kitten back again, and Toby was thrilled to be with Molly once more. Mary had to start her shift at 1600 hours, and wouldn't be back again until 2100 hours. Molly assured her that she would be fine, and Mary left.

Molly spent the first hour playing with Toby. She then went into the kitchen and distractedly prepared a lasagna, sighing with relief when she finally pulled it out of the oven and put it safely in the refrigerator.

Next, Molly sat down at Mary's computer and started to do some pregnancy research. She skipped over all of the parts about pregnancy symptoms and the shock people would receive when first finding out. "Of course, I found the best way to do it," she grumbled to herself. "Go over to Sherlock bloody Holmes' flat and be sitting there enjoying the peace and quiet when bam! You're suddenly announced pregnant."

She read over some more, and groaned. "Well, lucky me!" she exclaimed sarcastically. "At least I didn't miss the morning sickness part of pregnancy while I was asleep."

Days passed like this; with Mary going to work for half of the day leaving Molly to stay at home and relax. After about two weeks, Molly decided that it was time for her to return to work. With that arrangement taking up more of her schedule, Molly had a bit less time to be worried about her past, present, and future.

However, aside from her work offering a distraction, it also provided one thing that Molly had not been excited about. And that one thing was Sherlock Holmes.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hello, all! Thank you so much for your reviews and all that! I love them so much, I think that they (and you) are brilliant! _

_Many thanks to AlphaSapphire412 for her many reviews and all the support that they have provided!_

_Also, thank you to sherlollyshipperalltheway, it's nice to know that you like the story!_

_Last but most certainly not least, thanks to all of the guests who reviewed this story! Big hugs to you all! Big squishy hugs!_

_Just out of curiosity, what's been everybody's favorite chapter so far?_


	17. Chapter Seventeen

For the most part, they ignored each other. However, on the occasions that they accidentally bumped into each other in the hallways or such, things got very awkward very fast for Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper.

For the most part, Molly was very good at ignoring him. She could successfully be in the same room as him and not say a word, and he never said anything to her, either. Except for once.

She was typing at her computer. Sherlock and John were both at the opposite end of the room. Molly had been satisfied that they wouldn't bother her, so when long, cool fingers gripped her wrist tightly, she had been too shocked to do anything about it.

She looked up into the blue eyes of Sherlock Holmes. Maintaining eye contact, he had pulled the sleeve of her lab coat up to her elbow, revealing one long, deep, freshly bleeding scar that went from her wrist to her elbow. "I'll take that," he had said, leaning over and taking the small blade she had been playing with as she sat at her computer.

Molly had been speechless at the time, not saying a word as he looked at her, nor a word as he ran his fingers up her arm. But now, as he walked away, she couldn't stop herself. "Sherlock!" she called after him. He turned immediately, and his face wore an expression of expectancy. "Yes, Molly?" he asked.

Molly took a deep breath. "Give me my knife back," she said. Sherlock shook his head 'no' and continued walking. Molly stood stone still. _I should have expected it,_ she thought. Before thinking again, she reached into her pocket, pulled out her other knife, and threw it with all the force she could muster at the wall a foot or so above Sherlock's head.

It had the desired impact. He spun around, eyes wide. "Molly!" he shouted. "You might have killed me!" "And you might have killed me," said Molly coolly. "See how this works?" Without another word, she stepped forward and plucked her knife from Sherlock's hand and wrenched the other one out of the wall. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her as she left the mortuary.

"All looks good, Mrs. Hooper," the doctor said cheerily. Molly sighed, but didn't correct him. It would have been the third time that appointment that she would have had to tell someone, "No, not Mrs. Hooper. Miss." "Here are your ultrasounds. Your next appointment won't be for about three weeks. You'll be getting an email. We'll see you then."

Molly looked at the ultrasound pictures as she left the hospital. She was officially in her third month, and, so far, it had been quite exciting. Her baby, according to the pregnancy book she was currently reading, was now developing fingers and toes and had quadrupled in size since it was conceived. In about three weeks her baby would be fully formed.

Molly was progressively more into the whole 'baby' thing. She had done quite a bit of research, she and Mary were in the process of making a list of baby names, and they were (somewhat jokingly) drawing out what kind of room they'd want the baby to have.

After a very long hour slaving at Mary's kitchen table, Molly had decided to take her maternity leave in the sixth month of pregnancy. She and Mary were now watching telly with Toby. Every few minutes or so, one of them would throw out a baby name. Mary had a list of potential names on her lap.

"Steven," said Molly. Mary pursed her lips and thought for a second. "I don't know, Molly," she said. "It sounds an awful lot like the name of some cold-blooded killer who likes to watch people suffer." "We can't judge all Stevens off of Steven Moffat, y'know," said Molly. Mary turned and scribbled the name on the already long list. "What do we have so far?" asked Molly, noticing how small Mary had to write to fit the name at the bottom of the paper.

"For boys we have Christopher, Gerard, Max, Matthew, James, Scott, Jack, Kevin, Robert and Steven," said Mary. "For girls, Diana, Kathy, Brooklyn, Margaret, Audrey, Scarlett, and Kate." Molly thought for a moment. "Alright," she said. "You can take out Steven, Christopher, Gerard, Kate, Kathy, and Meg for first names, but leave them on the middle names list."

"So for a girl we could name her," Mary checked her list again. "Diana Kate Hooper." Molly smiled at her best friend. "That sounds nice," she said. "If you think that sounds nice, listen to this," said Mary. "Brooklyn Meg Hooper." Molly agreed that it was a beautiful name. "I think it's a great name," said Mary. "It just seems like the name that the daughter of-" "Shh!" hissed Molly. "It could be a boy, you know." "Boys!" scoffed Mary jokingly. "Who needs them?" "Obviously I did," said Molly, laughingly motioning to her belly.

Molly's stomach hadn't expanded too much in the past three months, but it was definitely bigger. It was expected to grow tremendously in the next month.

"For a boy name, maybe we could go James Scott Hooper," suggested Mary. "James Scott… isn't Scott Sherlock Holmes' middle name?" asked Molly. "Like you don't know," Mary joked. Molly laughed a little at that, too. She rubbed her stomach and smiled ruefully.

"Like I don't know," she murmured softly to her tummy.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

Molly had finally decided to move back into her flat. Aside from the fine layer of dust on everything, it was exactly the same as Molly had left it 3½ months previously. The thought made her feel homesick. "Stop it," she told herself. "You are home."

Toby was very comfortable almost immediately; Molly had to threaten to sit on him to get him off of her chair. She sat down and, sighing, rubbed her hand over her stomach. "Three and a half months of being pregnant have not been kind to you, Molly Hooper," she told herself. "Considering that the baby is about the size of your fist and you already look like you swallowed a basketball."

She might have been over-exaggerating a little bit, but not much. Already Molly was bigger than the pictures she had looked at online. Nobody acted like it mattered, but Molly knew that if you were being asked your due date a little before you even reached month four, you were overweight.

The next week, Molly and Mary got together for a celebratory meal. The occasion? Molly had officially reached her fourth month of pregnancy. "Only five more months of being fat," she laughed to Mary. Mary laughed, too. "You aren't fat!" she said jokingly. "It's the baby that's fat. Tell her to go on a diet."

Since they were getting tired of referring to the baby as an 'it', Mary and Molly had decided to switch it up. Every conversation they had, they referred to the baby as the opposite gender they had used the conversation before.

"I don't know, Mary," said Molly. "Carley seems to like her food." She paused expectantly as Mary pursed her lips and thought for a moment. "I like Carley," she declared a second later.

Another game the girls had taken to playing was to randomly throw out names for the baby. If it was something they both liked, they would add it to their list.

Mary looked at her watch. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "You need to be at your appointment in fifteen minutes. Here, I'll drive you."

At Molly's doctor appointment, Mary sat in the hallway outside. She could hear the doctor talking to Molly, but she couldn't distinguish his words. After what seemed like hours, Molly finally came out of the room. "Everything okay?" Mary asked, smiling. Molly smiled, too, but Mary couldn't help but notice that she looked unnaturally pale. "Of course," Molly said.

Mary drove Molly home. Once they were inside, Mary remembered something. "Oh!" she said. "What's wrong?" asked Molly in a concerned voice. Mary smiled. "Nothing is wrong," she said. "I almost forgot to tell you." "Tell me what?" asked Molly, looking suspiciously at her friend's sly grin.

"Oh, nothing," said Mary, running her fingers up and down her arm. "Just, you know," she smiled even more. "John asked me out for Friday." Molly grinned brightly; both she and Mary had been waiting for John to work up the nerve to ask her out. "Give me _all _the details," she demanded, and then giggled at her child-like tone of voice.

A few hours later, Mary went home. Molly ate, fed Toby, and fell asleep. This was much the pattern of her days for the next short while. She woke, she ate, she fed Toby, she went to work. She came home and cooked or cleaned or talked with Mary or went shopping, she sometimes went to the doctor's, she ate dinner, she again tended to Toby, and she fell asleep.

One night, however, as she was lying on her bed waiting for sleep to claim her, she felt something. Jolting up, she ran her hand over her stomach, pausing to let it rest where she knew her baby would be positioned. A moment later, she felt it again. She grinned-she could finally feel her baby inside of her.

The next day, before her doctor's appointment, she and Mary once again met for lunch. "So today is the big day!" squealed Mary happily. Molly smiled. "If by that you mean, today is the day I find out if baby will be a girl or a boy, then yes! But guess what!" Molly quickly explained what she had felt the night before.

Mary was delighted with the news. "I always thought it would feel so strange to have a baby moving inside of me," she said. "It is," Molly told her. "But at the same time it's so… enthralling." Mary laughed. "That baby's Daddy is really missing out," she said to Molly, as they left for her doctor's appointment.

"Alright, Miss Hooper," said the doctor. "Here's how this will work. If-" Molly coughed. "Yes?" asked Doctor Jones politely. Molly quietly motioned towards where Mary sat. "Remember the-ahem-_surprise_ we discussed?" The doctor nodded. "Of course, Miss Hooper. You can tell her yourself." Molly looked satisfied.

Mary looked up from her magazine. "Molly Hooper, I'm going to find out the gender of that baby either way, so you might as well just have the doctor tell me!" Molly just smiled.

"ANYWAY," Doctor Jones said loudly. "If the _baby _is lying in a position where I can see his or her lower regions clearly, you'll find out if it's a he or she."

An hour or so later, Molly and Mary sat in Mary's apartment. Both of them looked at the envelope in Molly's hand. Mary broke the silence. "It was nice of you to wait for me until you find out Charlie's gender," she said. Without missing a beat, Molly said, "Not Charlie." Mary nodded as if she had expected it, and then looked pointedly at the envelope again.

Nervously Molly opened it and pulled out a small blue notecard. "Blue," she pointed out. Mary, beyond the point of jokes, just nodded. Molly read the first line, and then continued to read. She read it again and started to smile. "Well?" Mary demanded. "Molly Hooper!" she said anxiously when Molly still didn't respond.

Molly looked up at her, her eyes glowing brightly. "Well?" Mary said again. Molly's smile grew wider. "It's a…"

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hey, guys! How's it going? I hope you like this chapter. I'm aiming on posting the next one later this evening (Wed., April 15, 2015) or tomorrow morning._

_**Many Many Thanks to:**_

_AlphaSapphire412__ for reviewing almost every single chapter of mine with very positive reviews. In your last review, I wasn't sure if you were hinting that you knew who the baby's father was or not, but either way, all I'm going to say is that the baby does have a father._

_Does anyone have any guesses as to what the child will be? A boy? A girl? And yes, I already have chosen. I'll give shoutouts to everybody and anybody who guesses right!_

_Also, if you have theories about where you think I'm leading this to, please let me know what you think! I love to hear your opinions and theories, and I want to know the impression you're getting from my writing. Thanks, lovelies! ~Rusty Tater Tot_


	19. Chapter Nineteen

"It's a…" Molly looked back down at the paper in her hand, still smiling. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes for a moment, and appeared to be thinking. She then looked up at Mary and smiled again. "A girl. She's a girl." Molly's squeals of excitement could only be matched by Mary's.

After some excited chatter, Mary said, "Let's go over baby girl names." Once Molly nodded, Mary pulled a tattered, worn, taped, drawn on piece of paper out of her pocket. "Let's grab a new piece of paper and transfer all of the finalists onto it," suggested Molly. About a half hour later, they had the results.

"In alphabetical order, more or less," said Mary," we have: Ashley, Ariel, Brooklyn, Britney, Carley, Caroline, Diana, Destiny, Elyse, Grace, Jessica, Jennifer, Kate, Molly, Meg, Scarlett, and Zfiva." Molly laughed. "What was that last one?" she asked. "Zfiva," said Mary again. "Zeeva?" Molly inquired. "No, Zfiva, Z-f-i-v-a," said Mary. "The 'f' is silent."

Mary had to leave soon afterward, but Molly was fine with it. She sat with Toby on her couch, thinking to herself. "What have you done, Molly?" she asked.

Meanwhile…

John and Mary had gone back to John's flat after their date to grab a drink and watch some telly. Half an hour later, Sherlock stormed in, seemingly furious. Even with the telly turned up as loud as it went, John and Mary could still hear him throwing things and slamming drawers around in the kitchen. After a bit of this, John decided to go and check on him.

"What's up, Sherlock?" he asked his best friend. Sherlock ignored him, and continued stabbing the kitchen table with a knife. "Sherlock?" John asked again. This time, Sherlock looked up. "Everything. This time half a year ago, it was all brilliant. Then everything starts changing. Gray is getting divorced from his wife, you and Mary are together, and Molly…" Sherlock shook his head. "I don't even want to go into whatever is happening there."

"Did I hear Molly's name?" asked Mary as she stepped into the kitchen to grab another drink. She walked over to the freezer and opened it for some ice cubes. "I thought you'd be happy about that, Sherlock," she said as she dug through the freezer. Sherlock, momentarily distracted, looked away from John. "Happy about what?" he asked. Mary backed out of the freezer, looking disconcerted. "The baby. It's a girl," she said in response to Sherlock's question. Then, to John, she said, "there's a bag of thumbs in your freezer."

Sherlock stormed into his room a moment later and didn't come back out for the rest of the night.

Once Again Back To Molly…

Molly couldn't sleep. She rested her hand on her stomach and looked up at the ceiling. She was more than halfway through her pregnancy. In less than four months she would be cradling a baby in her arms, singing her a lullaby, reading her books. She'd put her in the crib, she'd cuddle her, Molly would give her everything she could. A tear dripped down her face, and then another. Molly could give this child everything in the world except for a father. Because this child's father couldn't be a father.

Molly, now crying, sat up and pulled out her journal.

_I know I would die for this child. Hell, right now I AM dying for this child. She needs to know her father. I bet he'll love that. I've come up with a plan for how to accomplish this, and I'm writing it down so that in the morning I can re-read it and convince myself I'm crazy, that I can't split up my family like this. Impossibly enough, I know that, unless someone finds out or I kill myself or manage to convince myself that I'm crazy. At least with this plan, any and all of my children will grow up knowing at least one of their parents. She will know her father, and he will know me. The perfect square._

Molly wrote in her journal long into the night.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Okay, I got around to posting this chapter a bit before the I thought I would. Because nobody's had time to read the other one yet, I won't be doing the shoutouts yet. I probably won't be doing them in the next chapter, either, because I'm on a roll._

_So, if you have guesses about what Molly's plan is, let me know what you think._


	20. Chapter Twenty

Molly had officially started her maternity leave. To be honest, she was quite glad. Her stomach seemed to be expanding much faster than her pregnancy book had said-now she _actually _looked like she had swallowed a basketball-and people at the hospital were starting to stare.

Molly hadn't seen or spoken to anybody since her maternity leave had started. She had enough groceries to last a week (she was on day four) and she was perfectly content to stay in with Toby. She constantly spoke to her stomach, rubbing it softly, singing songs to it, reading stories to it. As she had written in her journal the morning after that horrible night, Molly was going to be "the best mom she could be!"

And she was.

So now Molly sat on her couch, running her fingers over her swollen tummy, crooning soft songs. "Mommy can't wait to see you, my most adorable bear. You are going to be so sweet, muffin. I love you, my loveliest little darlings." She had been doing this for several long minutes when the doorbell rang.

Having heaving herself up from the sofa with a sigh, Molly made her way to the door, massaging her back. Staring through the peephole, she was surprised to see Mary standing right outside her door.

Quickly unlatching the deadbolt, Molly threw open the door. "Molly!" Mary cried joyfully and hugged her friend. The two girls made their way inside and sat down with cups of tea. "So…" said Mary. Molly watched her expectantly. "John and I are getting married!" declared Mary, unable to keep it in anymore. Both the girls hugged each other.

"That's great, Mary!" said Molly, smiling brightly at the other woman. "Isn't it?" asked Mary. "But that's not all I came for." "Oh?" asked Molly. "I came to bring you over to my flat for a celebratory dinner with John, and Greg, and Mrs. Hudson… and the Holmes' brothers." "I can't, Mary," said Molly immediately. "I'm so sorry, but I can't do it."

"Nonsense," said Mary, rising from her chair. "You, my best friend, are coming with me to celebrate my engagement to John, another one of your good friends. You haven't been out since you left work. You've been stressing out over this baby thing-don't deny it! You. are. coming. to. my. flat."

Fifteen minutes later, Molly and Mary were on their way to Mary's flat. Molly looked out the window the entire cab trip, messing with the hem of her lovely purple maternity dress. "Mary," she said, the desperation making it's way into her voice. Mary smiled calmingly at Molly, and Molly turned away so that she wouldn't see the tears gathering in her eyes.

A social gathering. With all the people she had been hiding from. They would think she was an ugly, fat slut. Who gets pregnant and claims not to know who the father is? She couldn't socialize. She was six months pregnant with an adorable and sweet child, one that would never have a family like the one John and Mary were starting.

"Molly?" hearing Mary's voice, Molly quickly blinked the tears out of her eyes and turned around, smiling brightly. "We're here."

Inside, it was everything Molly had imagined, but worst. Sherlock was standing there making smart comments about every tiny detail. John had obviously had one too many drinks ,and Mary was convincing him not to have any more. Mycroft was sitting in the corner with Anthea, and Lestrade was staking out the buffet table.

Molly sat miserably by herself, staring quietly out the window. She was completely uninvolved with her surroundings. "May I sit down?" came a voice from right behind her. Jumping, Molly turned to see Sherlock standing there. "Sure," said Molly nervously.

Sitting, Sherlock turned to her and said, "John told me to apologize to you for the last time I saw you. Apparently it's not nice to hurt a fat-erm, _pregnant_-woman's feelings." Molly laughed bitterly. "You get right to the point, don't you?" She turned again to face out the window.

"You've been crying." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Molly turned around again to see Sherlock looking at her with what might have been concern. "Look, Sherlock," she said to him. "I'm really not in the mood to be deduced right now. Go talk to someone else."

Rather than listening to her, Sherlock sat in silence for a moment. "So," he said conversationally. "A girl, huh?" Molly turned around to tell Sherlock to shove his smart-ass comments where the sun don't shine, but to her surprise, there was something almost wistful in his eye.

Molly nodded. "Yes. She will be a girl." Sherlock eyed her overly-large stomach suspiciously, but he didn't say anything, which Molly was thankful for.

Soon, however, Molly decided she couldn't stay where she and Sherlock were the only two that were sober. She hugged Mary and hailed a cab.

Once home, Molly was almost immediately knocked out with exhaustion. Pleased with the idea of sleeping through the night, she changed into her pajamas, wiped off her makeup, and fell asleep.

She awoke with a start. Baby was kicking again. Rubbing her stomach, Molly glanced at the clock. 0300 hours. Molly groaned and leaned herself back onto her pillows. "Hey, sweety," she said to her tummy. "You aren't sleeping, baby. What's wrong?" Molly twisted and turned, trying to make herself comfortable.

"You're keeping your family awake, love," she said, sighing. "Hush little baby, don't say a word, Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird. If that mockingbird don't sing, Papa's gonna buy you a diamond ring. If that diamond ring turns brass, Mama's gonna buy you a looking glass. If that looking glass gets broke…" Molly sighed, and a single tear ran down her face. "Your father will make fun of me for buying a baby a looking glass in the first place."

She took a deep breath, massaging her aching back. Turning on her side, she curled into a ball and willed herself not to cry. "It's alright, baby," she said to her stomach. "You're going to be alright."

Molly stroked her belly softly. "Shush, lovely child," she murmured. "You have a mama who loves you very much, for always and forever." Molly squeezed her eyes tightly together, blocking the tears. "Til death do we part."


	21. Chapter Twenty-One

Molly sat in her kitchen, poking her salad with a fork. She had lost her appetite in the last few weeks. If it weren't for Mary's insistence, she wouldn't have eaten more than a meal every few days. It had been two weeks since the day of Mary and John's engagement party, and Molly had only spoken to Mary.

Molly spent every night as the victim of brutal kicking from inside her womb. Every night she woke up and walked around, stretched, read, ate small meals, did everything that the books suggested. Sometimes it helped, sometimes it didn't.

One day, Mary walked into Molly's flat to find Molly anxiously typing at her laptop. "What's wrong?" Mary asked. "Um…" Molly replied. "I'm not sure what to think of this…" she turned the computer to face Mary. "Apparently there's a 50% chance I might go into early labor." Looking concerned, Mary scrolled up the screen. A moment later, she broke into a smile. "Silly Molly," she laughed. "This is for mothers pregnant with twins." Molly laughed, but her face remained pale.

She had anxiously been studying what to do when labor started. As she was coming up on seventh month of pregnancy, she became exceedingly anxious about what would happen when her child decided to make her appearance. Molly still had trouble picking out a name. She had narrowed it down to Brooklyn, Katherine, Margaret, Patricia, and Carley.

When asked about the last name of the baby, Molly answered without missing a beat, "Hooper. What else would it be?" It seemed that Molly and Mary alone knew who the father was, although neither of them could really believe it.

Molly was feeling quite dreadful the morning of it, but she forced herself to get up and get dressed for John and Mary's wedding. She pulled out her beautiful yellow maternity dress and put it on. Choking back the awful feeling she got in the back of her throat, Molly got in a cab and drove to the church.

Molly knew she had made a mistake the second she got out of the cab. Naturally, the first thing that happened would be that Mary announced her pregnancy. Everyone was crying and laughing and congratulating them, Molly included.

Secretly, however, Molly was full of envy. Here was her best friend, starting a happy family with the man she loved. Mary would wake up and be happy. She would have a happy child in a happy family. Something Molly would-could-never have.

Molly left the reception early. For the sake of her best friends, she waited until she was in her own flat before dissolving into tears. She raced into the bathroom and washed all of the makeup off of her face. After she had completed that, she changed into a bathrobe and went to relax with Toby.

However, halfway to the couch with her container of ice cream, Molly experienced something that erased all thoughts of a happy family. Right then, all Molly could think about was the pain she was experiencing.

She thought back to the article that had said that the mothers of twins were 50% more likely to have an early labor. "But you aren't having twins," a voice in the back of her head reminded her. Not just any voice, of course. It was the voice of Sherlock Holmes. "Shut up!" she hissed at it, clutching her stomach tightly as another wave of pain rolled over her.

Having read all the literature possible on the subject, it didn't take Molly long to realise what was happening. As she made her way quickly to the bedroom to grab an overnight bag, all Molly was really thinking about was one thing: She was going into labor.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hey, guys! Not my best chapter, but I like it. Again, let me know what you think!_

_XO, ~Rusty Tater Tot_


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two

Molly had dreamed about this moment for years as a growing child. She had dreamed about how she would maintain her beauty through her pregnancy, and her husband would feed her ice cream and pickles. She wouldn't ever throw up, and her ankles wouldn't get puffy. She'd go into easy labor and within the hour she'd be holding her beautiful baby in her arms. Her husband would take a picture, and then come over to her and kiss them both. Her beautiful husband, Mr.-

"AUGHH!" Molly screamed. So much for easy labor. She had only just made it to the hospital, and, so far she was by herself. There was nobody to call someone for her. She looked down at her gargantuum belly, so big she couldn't even see her feet. She felt like hitting it. Then she remembered that it wasn't a baby's fault that she was in so much pain.

Luckily, before the contractions got really bad, Molly had managed to get a nurse to call Mary and John. Supposedly, they were on their way. Hearing this eased Molly a little bit, but a moment after another contraction hit her and all she could think about was the vicious pain in her back.

After the pain had stopped, she looked at the doctor. "Is it…" Molly began, panting. The nurse looked at her. "Is it normal to feel like my stomach is ripping in half?" The nurse calmingly took Molly's hand. "Soon you will be holding a sweet little baby in your arms, and all of this pain will be forgotten."

The nurse looked back at her chart. "I do have to ask, though, Mrs. Hooper. It says here you have some information that you've chosen to keep private. Are you aiming on letting your friends who will visit you in on this secret?" "No," Molly gasped, rubbing her stomach. "No." "So…" the nurse looked confused. "The girl," Molly whispered. "Just the girl, and I'll handle the other in the morning."

The nurse nodded, satisfied. Molly lay her head back against the headboard and relaxed; she knew that she had several minutes before the next contraction.

"Molly!" she heard a cry. Turning her head slightly she saw Mary running towards her in concern. "I got here as soon as I could! John is home right now, he was out cold. I left him a note, he'll be here in a few hours," Mary said. Molly could only smile and nod as she clutched her swollen belly.

"Do you want me to call… anyone else?" Mary asked hesitantly. Molly paused. Did she want Mary to call someone else? She was still considering this when another contraction hit her, this one even stronger than the last. The doctor had whisked Mary out before it had finished. "Alright, Molly. When the next one hits, I want you to push."

Mary sat on a plastic chair in the waiting room. She sent a text to John every thirty minutes or so. She considered calling someone else, but who would she call? Sherlock? Would Molly be comforted with Sherlock's presence? Mary had to laugh at the idea of Sherlock yelling at a laboring mother, telling her she wasn't doing it right. Then she put Molly in place of the laboring mother, and suddenly it wasn't funny anymore.

Mary had dozed off after a while. John had finally shown up and they were both sitting in the waiting room now, Mary with her head on John's shoulder. She was so tired she didn't even notice the doctor until he was right in front of them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Watson?" he asked. Mary's head jerked up, and John said, "Yes, yes, that's us." Mary smiled and squeezed his hand. "Yes," she said. "We're the Watsons." "Great," said the doctor. "Molly is ready to see you now.

When they entered the room, Mary and John were thrilled to see Molly, looking tired but content, holding a tiny baby girl. The baby itself was rather red and wrinkled, but adorable nonetheless. "Hi, guys," said Molly softly. "Meet Mary Brooklyn." Mary's hands went up to her mouth and she gasped in delight. "Mary wasn't even on the list," she hissed at Molly, but she was too busy cooing at little Mary to pursue the matter.

"You be godparents?" asked Molly. Mary and John looked at her, stunned. "Silence gives consent," laughed Molly. "Yes! Oh, yes, Molly, that would be wonderful!" gasped Mary with delight. Molly laughed again.

"Erm, Molly, I hate to ruin the moment with a stupid question," began John. Mary shot him a warning look. John chose to ignore it and continued. "Should I call Sherlock?" Molly seemed to be considering this for a moment. "No," she finally said. "He's made his choice about being involved with this family."

After a while, Molly insisted that the newlyweds go home and get some rest. "You can come visit me in the morning," she said. But in the morning, only Mary went to visit her. John instead went to 221B Baker Street.

"Sherlock!" he shouted as he went in the door. Sherlock stepped smartly out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee. "John," he said. "Have you left Mary already?" John was taken aback, but after a moment he recovered. "No," he said angrily. "No, I came to tell you that last night Molly had her baby."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth, but no sound came out. After a minute, he said, "... But she wasn't due." John shrugged. "Yeah, stuff like this happens. The baby is healthy and Mary is, too." Sherlock's eyebrow raised. "What's the baby named?"

"Mary," John grinned. "Mary Brooklyn." Sherlock groaned. "Mary must have been drunk when she named her." John's smile disappeared and he glared at Sherlock. Sherlock glared back.

They had been glaring at each other for a while when a small thud at the door distracted Sherlock. "What was that?" he asked. "I don't know, Mrs. Hudson bringing up the tea tray?" John replied. Sherlock, watching the door, slowly walked to the other side of the room and pulled the gun off the mantle. Cocking it, he approached the door.

"Sherlock…" John warned him. It was too late. Swinging open the door, Sherlock pointed his gun right into the face of… Nobody. There was nobody there. "Oh," said Sherlock disappointedly. "I could have sworn that somebody was out here." "Sherlock," John said nervously. Sherlock uncocked the gun and turned around to look at him. "Sherlock," John said again. "What's that?" He pointed at a shoebox on the ground next to the door. Sherlock picked it up and set it on the kitchen table.

"First," he said, "Let's read the note." He opened the envelope that had been resting on the top of the box and pulled out two pieces of paper. Sherlock read the first, and, progressively getting paler, he looked at the second. He dropped it as though it were poisoned and turned to look at the box.

John bent down to pick up the second piece of paper, the one Sherlock had dropped. He glanced over it, and his brow furrowed. It looked like… a birth certificate. John read the name on it and he almost dropped it, too. "Mary Brooklyn Holmes," he read again, this time out loud. "Holmes?" he asked and looked up. What he saw almost gave him a heart attack.

Sherlock was holding a baby. When their eyes met, both Sherlock and John looked equally confused. Then some of Sherlock's disappeared, only to be replaced with worry. "Molly," he said, and, placing the baby in John's arms, he turned towards the door.

Right at that moment Mary came in through the door. "John," she cried frantically when she saw him. Then she saw the baby and stopped. "Is that…" "Mary," John confirmed. Mary started crying. "Oh, God…" she muttered. "Mary, what is it, what's wrong?" John asked anxiously. Sherlock watched them.

"I… I went to visit them in the hospital," Mary said through her tears. "And the doctor said they checked out about an hour ago." Here she stopped and wiped her eyes. "She said Molly checked herself out an hour ago and left… with both of her babies."

_**Author's Note:**_

_My wonderful reviewer __AlphaSapphire412__ made the point that I will have to tell you who Little Baby's dad is eventually. After this chapter, you should know. If you don't… _

_And, just a warning, I have a huge plot-twist coming up in a few chapters. If you're easily heartbroken (you can judge that by whether or not you cried when Molly fell of the hospital roof), beware._

_How do you like my cliffhanger? I've been planning this for several chapters now, so I hope you like it._

_Thank you all for your reviews! __AlphaSapphire412__, I love you, you're the best!_

_Review some more, guys! Love ya! ~Rusty Tater Tot_


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three

It was at Sherlock's insistence that they went to Molly's flat to search for her. "She could be there," he said. Looking at the pink bundle in his arms, he added, "And she might not have meant to leave Brooklyn in my hands."

"Whatever you say," said John, looking unconvinced. He went back inside to grab his coat. When he came back out, Sherlock and the baby were gone. Mary was standing next to a cab.

"Where's Sherlock?" he asked, once they were inside. "He got impatient in the minute you were gone and left. I think he's in dad shock," Mary told him. "Dad shock?" John inquired. "You know, he wasn't a dad and then he was. No involvement or anything like that." "He doesn't have to be," said John. "He could always give the baby to someone more… suitable."

Mary sighed. "The thing is, I don't think he will. I asked him if he wanted me to bring her in our cab, and he said he was going to take her with him. I think he's loving being a dad already, which," here she paused and laughed, "Is funny, considering…" "He's Sherlock," finished John.

"And," Mary added in an undertone, "If Molly really is gone, I think Sherlock will be even more clingy than usual." John nodded in consent. A few minutes later they were outside Molly's flat. They paid the cabbie and went inside.

"Sherlock!" John shouted as they entered. "In here," came the response. John and Mary walked into what was once the spare room. "Wow," said John, looking around him. "This is colorful."

Molly had really outdone herself for the baby room. The walls were painted a bright, cheery yellow, with pink, purple, and light blue butterflies everywhere. There were two lovely, white cribs against the wall. One had a fluffy pink blanket and the other a blue one. There was a rocking chair in the corner, a little bureau, and a humongous stack of stuffed animals.

Mary nodded. "Quite colorful. She hadn't shown me in here yet." She went over and touched the crib with the blue blanket. "Twins… I had no clue." "Me neither," said John. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Really?" he said. "You knew, then?" asked John incredulously. "Yeah, I thought you weren't involved in any of this," said Mary. "Of course I wasn't," said Sherlock. "You could tell just by looking at her. After all, she did look like a hippo, and she was only seven months in."

"So now the question is," Mary said, "What about the other baby?" Sherlock gently placed Brooklyn into one of the cribs. He turned away from the other two adults before answering.

"Matthew Scott Holmes," he said. "How in bloody hell…" John began. Sherlock turned and held up a piece of paper. "She left a note," he said. Mary stepped forward and took it from his hands. She read it aloud

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Surprise! I've left you another note in the shoebox with Mary, but, assuming you've come to my flat to look for me, I've left another. How do you like your beautiful baby daughter? I recall you saying that you didn't want to be involved with this family, but I'm not going to be the reason you live and die without a little baby calling you 'daddy.' After much consideration, I've come to the conclusion that you can be responsible enough to handle Mary Brooklyn. I've left town, and I won't be returning for a while. I'll come back someday, but meanwhile, raise our daughter right, please. I'm sure you'll have tons of help. Oh, and because you're probably wondering why I didn't leave you Matthew (your son), it's because two Holmes men in one flat would be two Holmes men too many. I don't know your mum, but she has to have been incredibly patient to have raised you and Mycroft, and I know my mum was patient, too, so, hopefully with all of these patient, womanly genes in her, Mary will be able to withstand being raised by you. Give her a kiss from her mum every day, please. Take lots of pictures, and DO NOT GIVE HER A GUN BEFORE SHE IS TEN. That is 100% a rule that cannot be broken. Hopefully I'll be back before then, but you never know. Much love to William Sherlock Scott Holmes and Molly Brooklyn Holmes._

_ Sincerely, Molly Hooper and William Scott Holmes-Hooper_

"Aww," said Mary as she finished reading. "That's sweet." She looked at Sherlock and was surprised that he seemed a bit misty-eyed. "This room is horribly dusty," he said, turning around. "Thankfully, Molly has packed a bag of things I can take back for Brooklyn, so I don't have to stay here any longer than necessary." "Wait-you're going to keep her?" asked Mary. Sherlock turned to glare at her. "Of course."

"Well," said Mary calmly. "As her godparents, John and I are exercising our right to help you-what was it?" she checked the letter again. "Raise MARY well." Sherlock nodded. "Naturally," he said. "With myself raising her, and you and John assisting me, _Brooklyn _will have graduated college by the age of fourteen." He and Mary glared at each other, then Mary sighed and backed down. "It would be very confusing to be named Mary and have an Aunt Mary as well," she said. "And we don't want to confuse Brooklyn any more than she's already going to be."

All three of the adults in the room looking at the sleeping child. Even as small and shriveled as she was, there was no doubt that she was Sherlock's child. Sherlock crossed the room and picked her up. "Well?" he said to John and Mary. "Let's go."


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four

So far, Sherlock was feeling the stress of being a parent just as much as any other person in the world. It had been several months since Molly's departure, and he never got so much as an email from her. Mary and John were helping as much as possible, but there was only so much they could do with their own baby on the way.

"Will you please shut up?" demanded Sherlock for the third time. Little Brooklyn lay on the couch. She seemed comforted by Sherlock's voice, even as angry as it sounded. Sherlock looked at her and sighed. Crossing the room, he bent down and picked her up off of her blanket.

In the past four months, Brooklyn had grown quite nicely. She now weighed average, much to the delight of her godparents. She had also grown a layer of thin, dark hair, which, in Sherlock's opinion, improved her appearance considerably. "She was always a beauty," Mary said, taking her from Sherlock and cuddling her. "On the contrary," responded Sherlock. "She was red, shriveled, bald, small and needy when she first came here. Living here has had such a positive effect on her."

John and Mary both laughed at this. "What's so funny?" asked Sherlock, his eyebrows knitting together. Mary set Brooklyn down on her fuzzy 'baby rug' and went into the kitchen to make some tea.

Brooklyn pushed herself up onto her arms, momentarily supporting all her upper-body weight on her little arms. "That's incredible, you know," he said to Sherlock. Sherlock looked on uninterestedly. "Hardly," he said. "I've done some research. That's typical behaviour for a three-month old. Brooklyn, in case you've forgotten, is four months."

John glared at him. "Brooklyn was born two months early, which means that she's only got the strength of a two-month old." "Holmes' children have always developed early," argued Sherlock. "She's right on schedule."

"Boys!" Mary entered from the kitchen with two cups of tea. She gave one to John and one to Sherlock, then headed back towards the kitchen for her own. "Brooklyn is _amazing_-she is, she is."

Sherlock, John, and Mary all turned to look at the baby. She lay on her back, kicking her feet. In one of her hands she tightly clutched a worn pink bunny rabbit. "She loves that thing," Mary said fondly. "It's all she has to remember her mother by," said John.

Sherlock laughed almost bitterly. "She doesn't remember her mother, nor she will ever." "But…" Mary began. "That's that," said Sherlock firmly. "Molly made her choice, and I made mine. Someday Brooklyn and Matthew will undoubtedly have their own say in the matter, but I don't see why we have to bring it about any sooner by ridiculous talk of 'remembering her mother.' She's four months old, Mary."

Mary scowled at the detective's retreating back. Once he had disappeared into the kitchen, she bent down to pick up Brooklyn. "Your daddy is silly, baby girl," she said. "He doesn't want you to know your mum." Brooklyn's head swivelled around, and she swung her arms around and gurgled. "Yes," Mary smiled. "Silly dad."

John watched them, smiling. He started to say something, but was distracted by a buzz. Looking around, he saw Sherlock's phone on the mantle. After checking to make sure Sherlock was still in the kitchen, he picked up the phone.

_"One message from Molly Hooper" _it read. John audibly gasped. Mary came over, bouncing Brooklyn on her waist, and looked over his shoulder as John quickly read the message. It was a picture. The caption read, "Does Mary look anything like Matthew?" And the picture…

If people had thought Brooklyn looked like Sherlock, all Mary and John would have had to do was show them a picture of Matthew. He also had dark hair, but his was curling, framing his face. His eyes were a piercing, shocking blue, and if any baby ever had a jawline, Matthew had a jawline.

"Sherlock can't see this," Mary whispered, looking consciously towards the kitchen. "Absolutely not," replied John. "It would probably crush him. We can't delete this, though…" "Swap with me," said Mary. She handed Brooklyn to John and took the phone. "What are you doing?" asked John, quietly glancing towards Sherlock. "Saving the picture to his phone, and deleting the message," Mary said.

A moment later the deed was done. Mary and John set the phone back on the mantle and sat down with Brooklyn right before Sherlock came back into the room. "Forgot my phone," he said before picking it up and heading back out. Mary and John smiled sneakily at each other. "Oh," Sherlock said, turning at the door to his bedroom. "Just for the record, if you're messing around on someone's phone, a lot less conspicuous whispering and standing around in a group would go far. Have fun with Brooklyn." With that, Sherlock disappeared into his room.


	25. Chapter Twenty-Five

John and Molly were taking care of Brooklyn again. She was sleeping in the nursery in their flat for the third time that week. It was only Tuesday evening.

"Listen," John said quietly when Mary finally slipped out of the baby's room. "Not that I don't love Brooklyn, but…" "I know," Mary said, rubbing her stomach. "Sherlock needs to pitch in, give us some time. His daughter is sleeping in the room we've prepared for our son."

Mary and John had been delighted to verify that they were having one son. "At least she doesn't mind blue," John had said jokingly the first night Brooklyn slept over.

"Sherlock is suffering," said Mary. "He's raising a baby on his own. That's enough to drive any man insane, and Sherlock, who is prepared for everything… Let's just say that he seemed like the least likely person to be in this position." "But wouldn't Molly have known that?" John asked.

Mary tucked her feet under her and rested her own head on her shoulder. "I don't know," she said. "Giving up little Brooklyn to Sherlock seems almost…" "Abusive," finished John. "It's not that he isn't a good father, he just doesn't understand how fragile she is," Mary said.

John bit his lip as he remembered another time, two weeks ago, when Mary had been working. He had gone to pick Brooklyn up from Sherlock, and had quietly walked into the flat. Brooklyn had been lying on the kitchen table. Sherlock was leaning over her, holding a gun. At first, John was terrified, but then he realised what was happening. Sherlock was telling her about the gun. And John was pretty sure he was using a baby voice.

John wasn't entirely sure if this made him more or less nervous about Sherlock fathering such a little baby. On the one hand, he wasn't ignoring her and he was definitely trying to impart his knowledge to her. On the other… Teaching a six-month old baby about guns probably wouldn't have been on his and Mary's agenda.

"And I said to her, "Janine, that baby is no more yours than it is Anderson's. She is Sherlock's daughter, Sherlock's legal child, Sherlock's baby. Molly recruited us to help him," Mary was saying. John smiled at his wife.

He looked at her swollen stomach. She noticed his look and, taking his hand, said, "Just three more months love." John smiled even more. "And little Mikey Sherlock Watson will be here, with us."

They smiled at each other for a moment before Mary dropped his hand. "Son of a f -" she looked down at her belly. "A foolish monk," she finished. John snickered. "Monks don't have children," he told Mary. She playfully punched him in the arm. "Foolish monks do."

Her face grew serious. "Listen, John." Her voice fell to a whisper. "What are we going to do with Brooklyn when Mikey is here?" John looked at her. "Plenty of parents have a newborn and a nine-month old," he said. Mary glared at him. "It'll be too hard," she said. "Brooklyn isn't even our child." John's jaw dropped. "How can you say that?" he asked. "She doesn't have anyone else nurturing." "She can blame her mother for that," said Mary, and she stood up and stormed into the kitchen.

John sighed and was about to follow her when he heard a weak cry from the nursery. Sighing again, he went in.

He stopped for a moment once inside the small room to appreciate once more the fantastic job his wife had done to prepare for the upcoming baby. The walls were a very light shade of blue. There was a built-in shelf all along one wall. It had baby books on one section, stuffed animals on another, diapers on another, and, on the last one, Mary had had a little too much fun with the baby clothes.

Turning to face the crib again, he had to smile at little Brooklyn. Even though she was only supposed to be four months old, the doctor had said she was developing rapidly. She was currently sitting up in the crib, playing with her little pink rabbit. She was babbling softly to herself. When she saw John, she tightly clutched the bars of the crib and pulled herself up. Bouncing, she waited for him to come pick her up.

Once he was holding her safely in his arms, John carried Brooklyn back out towards where Mary was. She was now sitting on the sofa, eating ice cream out of the container. If she was still mad, it didn't show. "Brooklyn!" she smiled at the baby clinging to John. At the sound of her name, Brooklyn swivelled her head around to smile. "So the baby book was right," Mary said. "Brooklyn does recognise her name."

John set Brooklyn in the play crib. Going to join Mary on the couch, he asked her, "Are you sad we didn't call her Mary after all?" He and Mary smiled at each other for a moment, but then Mary sadly leaned her head onto his shoulder. "Oh, John," she said. "What are we going to do?"

**_Author's Note:_**

_I'm glad everyone is enjoying this so much! More than glad, really! Yes, Sherlock is Brooklyn's and Matthew's dad... to the best of our knowledge. And yes, we will indeed be meeting Matthew pretty soon._

_Also, to AlphaSapphire412: Who said anything about this ending? I'm thinking I might write this story for generations. Brooklyn's children, Brooklyn's children's children, Brooklyn's children's grandchildren... First I'll have to figure out how to make Sherlock immortal, of course... But you've been following this story since the beginning. I've updated twice a day, if not more. I don't just write a freakish amount. I'm in love with this story just as much as the next guy. I actually know what's coming, and I want you guys to know, too. I'm not going to stop writing this any time soon, guys._


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six

Mary and John successfully worked it all out without speaking to Sherlock about the whole thing at all. They were sitting in his flat, about two weeks before Mary's due date. John held Brooklyn in his lap, Mrs. Hudson talked to Mary, and Sherlock sat idly in his chair.

A firm knock sounded at the door. John and Mary swapped sly grins as Mrs. Hudson rose to open it. "Hello!" came the enthusiastic voices of Sherlock's parents. Immediately Sherlock jumped up, looking chagrined. "Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed as she entered the room. Sherlock fell back against the wall, only to be cornered by his mum and hugged.

"You naughty boy," she scolded. "Why didn't you tell us we were grandparents?" Mr. Holmes laughed. "He wanted to surprise us!" he told his wife. "Or he just didn't want us to know that he was contradicting himself," speculated Mrs. Holmes. Laughing, she turned back to Sherlock. "Remember when you told us that we would never be grandparents? Oh, how wrong you were!"

John approached the family gathering from behind. Tapping on Mrs. Holmes on the shoulder, he held up Brooklyn for inspection. "OHHHH!" squealed Sherlock's mother, taking Brooklyn. "How sweet!" John noticed that Sherlock had considerably paled. Nudging Mary, he pointed this out. They both laughed. "Well, we have to go now, bye, Sherlock!" said John. "Nice meeting you, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes!" said Mary.

As they left the building, John said, "Why do I feel like I just condemned him to slaughter?"

Meanwhile, Sherlock was dealing with his parents' dealing with his daughter. "Oh, Sherl!" his mother sighed. "She's beautiful. I don't understand why we weren't here sooner." His father clapped him on the shoulder. "So, son, where's the mother? Obviously, she'd have to be beautiful to produce such a lovely baby. It can't have been the father!" He chortled. Sherlock plastered a smile on his face and leaned forward to take Brooklyn from his mother.

Brooklyn looked up at him and held up her arms, allowing him to lift her willingly. Mrs. Holmes put her hand on her heart and smiled. "I can die in peace now," she said, laughing. Then her face grew serious. "But you didn't answer your father. Where's the mother?" she gasped suddenly. "Sherlock. Did you get married without us knowing?" Sherlock grew pale again. "No, Mother, I did not," he said.

Sherlock's parents exchanged glances. "So… are you two together still?" asked his father. Sherlock avoided his parents' gazes. "We never were, so…" he said. "Why doesn't she have the baby?" asked his mother curiously. "Not that it isn't great that you're taking responsibility and all that," Mr. Holmes added quickly. "But she could have easily kept the baby without you knowing or caring."

Sherlock inclined his head to the little girl playing in his arms. "She opted not to," he said simply. "And I can't say I'm sorry." There was a moment of silence before Sherlock looked up again. "So," he said hopefully. "You've seen her, she's cute, you've imposed on my life, you've embarrassed me in front of my child's godparents-you can leave now?"

His mother laughed. "Didn't that dear woman-Mary was her name-tell you?" Mr. Holmes asked. "They were worried about you having Brooklyn for the full amount of time it'll take for Mary to have her baby. We're staying until they're back in action." He said this with a glint in his eye. "And," he added. "You can catch us up on how you ended up with this." He motioned to Brooklyn.

Brooklyn was in her element. With her grandparents there, she finally had someone to praise her fine crawling skills, and laugh when she grabbed her nose. She had even, much to John's embarrassment, Mary's honour, and Sherlock's fury, said her first word. "Mama," she had said to Mary.

After this, Sherlock had denied whenever they asked him to have Brooklyn over. "Mary will be having her baby any second now, and I doubt it's good for a nine-month old to be exposed to that," he said.

Mary did have her baby, and the Holmes saw the Watsons a good bit less after that. Brooklyn didn't mind this. She got plenty of attention from her grandparents. She mastered the baby puzzles they had brought for her in mere days. She spoke nonstop and was already close to walking. "She's just like you were," Mrs. Holmes told an annoyed Sherlock.

Brooklyn's birthday approached. "It should be a big celebration," his parents said to Sherlock. "We have to invite the mother, obviously, and the Watsons. We should invite that nice policeman, and Mrs. Hudson, and Terrence from bingo! He'd love Brooke. Oh, and-" "Mother," Sherlock interrupted. "You've never managed to suffer through my own or Mycroft's name, but I'd ask you to at least try with my daughter. Her name is Brooklyn. Not Brooke, Booksies, Boo, Sugar Bear, or Honey Bun."

This only stopped Mrs. Holmes for a moment. "What about that nice girl who took us to the theatre the last time we were here?" Mr. Holmes asked his wife. "Molly!" his wife said. "Yes, that's a good idea. Add Molly to the guest list, Sherlock." Sherlock did as they told him without a word. Nobody noticed how his hand shook as he wrote her name down.

After a moment, he asked, "What about Brooklyn's brother?" His parents looked at him for a second. When she spoke, Mrs. Holmes voice was scarily level. "Brooklyn's… brother?" "Yes, that's what I said," said Sherlock impatiently. He rose from his chair and approached his parents, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he walked. Once he reached them, he showed them the picture. "Blimey, Sherlock!" said his dad. "Identical twins! IDENTICAL." His mother wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said. "Invite him, too."


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven

Molly was facing a dilemma. She really did want to go to the party, but at the same time, she didn't know how she could get in and out without getting trapped in a whole thing.

She looked at Matthew, playing on the carpet to himself. She didn't know a thing about her daughter, but she assumed she was a lot like Matthew. His dark hair fell into his eyes as he played, and still he didn't say a word.

Molly imagined going to Baker Street to celebrate her babies' birthday. Reuniting her children. Then she imagined having to face John and Mary and Greg… and Sherlock. She knew she couldn't do it. She also knew that, if she saw her baby again, she wouldn't be able to leave her.

There was a constant battle in Molly's heart, a battle concerning Mary Brooklyn. She knew Sherlock deserved a chance to be a dad, and she knew that he was learning just as much as she was in this scenario, but every time Molly closed her eyes, she couldn't help but see what she left behind.

She didn't know a thing about Mary, aside from her birthdate. She didn't know what she knew how to do, or say, or how she acted. She didn't know how she looked. She imagined her a lot like Matthew; small, smart, quiet, and unsmiling, but in her heart she realised she didn't know a thing.

"But could you go back to see her without forcing yourself back into her life?" a voice in the back of Molly's head asked. "Into everyone's lives?" Molly knew the answer. She looked again at her son. "We're happy," she told herself, but she was lying.

She had a baby who never acknowledged her. Her best friends were living a lifetime away, raising her child with a man who had never loved her. Molly had never made any friends, and she worked the night shift at a McDonald's. She was on the same emotional roller coaster she had been for her whole life, and, right now, she had never experienced a lower drop.

"You have to go. Just to see… Just to see how they're doing," she said to herself. Before she could change her mind, Molly texted Sherlock her and Matthew's RSVPs.

A week later, Molly found herself in the home of Mycroft Holmes. "Thanks for letting me stay here until this party is over, Mycroft," she said to him. "It's the least I could do, seeing as you're basically raising the child version of my little brother," he replied. Molly smiled at him and headed towards the room she was currently residing in.

The day of the party dawned. It was cold, rainy weather, and Molly had a headache. She vaguely recalled that the last party she had gone to, she had left early crying, gone to the hospital, hugged and kissed her baby daughter, and left the country without her. Molly set her jaw and began getting ready.

On the way to Baker Street, Molly got more and more nervous. She hugged Matthew tightly to herself and sung 'Happy Birthday' quietly under her breath. Next to her on the seat there were three bags: one pink, one blue, and one yellow. Each of them contained a gift: one for Matthew, one for Mary, and one for Mary and John's baby.

Molly took a deep breath of air as the cab stopped outside of 221B. She looked up at the window of Sherlock's flat. Thankfully, the curtain was drawn. With Matthew balanced on her hip, the gift bags in the other hand, and her purse slung over her shoulder, Molly turned and marched up the stairs.

She paused outside of Sherlock's flat. Was she really making the right decision. She turned around and looked back down the stairs. "No, Molly, you have to go through with this," the voice in her head whispered. Molly turned and prepared to knock, but right at that moment the door swung open.

Sherlock Holmes stood looking at her. Not at the baby in her arms, not at her clothing, not at all of her very obvious flaws, but right at her face. To clear the awkwardness in the air, Molly spoke. "I brought-" she flushed red. Her voice was much too high. She cleared her throat and began again. "I brought gifts," she said, holding the bags up.

In response, Sherlock held the door open for her to walk through. He still hadn't said a word. Stepping into the room, Molly's eyes immediately landed on her daughter. She dropped the bags onto the kitchen table and kneeled on the ground next to her.

"Molly," said Sherlock nervously-his first words since she had entered the flat-"This is your-this is Brooklyn." Molly smiled at the baby. "Hi, Brooklyn," she said softly. Brooklyn looked up and giggled. She offered Molly the block she was holding. Matthew crawled over to where his sister sat playing and they both played together, Brooklyn's unintelligible gurgling making up for Matthew's lack of sound.

Molly stood up and brushed herself off. She was aware of the silence in the room. She looked around for the first time since she had stepped in. Sherlock's parents were there, of course he would have invited them. They both looked at Matthew and whispered quietly to each other. John was there, watching her intently. And Mary was there, holding a beautiful baby. Smiling, Molly walked towards her.

"Molly Hooper, I should hit you," Mary hissed as Molly sat down. "Aww, you poor bitty baby," said Molly in a baby voice. "Your mama supports violence. What a sad life you must lead." Mary couldn't help but smile at the sound of her friend's voice. "I made you godmother," said Mary. Molly pretended to glare at her, but she couldn't keep the smile out of her eyes. "Mary," she said. "If you introduce me to your son, I'll introduce you to mine."

Mary's eyes grew wide, and she lost no time in the introduction. "Molly, this is Mikey Sherlock Watson, your godson." Molly gasped both with delight and laughter. " 'Sherlock' ?" she asked. Mary grinned. "John's suggestion," she replied, and both of the women were laughing. "And that," said Molly, pointing at Matthew, "Is Matthew Scott Hooper-Holmes, your godson."

Mary and Molly both laughed at Sherlock as he sat with his children, playing blocks with them. Molly couldn't keep her eyes off of Brooklyn.

Brooklyn had changed in the past year. Her skin, rather than being red and wrinkled, was now full, smooth, soft and pale. This greatly contrasted her eyes, which were a light, icy blue. Her lips were small and pink, and the girl's dark curls fell around her face in a casual, flowing way.

"She looks like a modern-day Snow White," said Molly, watching Brooklyn gleefully try to bite the head off of a stuffed puppy. After a while, Sherlock went into Brooklyn's room to change her diaper, and Molly took this as her chance. "I have to go," she said to Mary, and, with a hug, she whisked up her son and his gifts and tore out the door.


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight

Sherlock acted like he didn't care that Molly left without saying goodbye. He came back out with Brooklyn and sat right down and started playing Patty-Cake with her. The party ended and people left and Sherlock didn't leave Brooklyn the rest of the day.

As it got closer to nighttime, he gave her a bath and put her in her crib with Molly's gift: a _new _pink stuffed bunny. Kissing her goodnight, he stepped out into his kitchen.

His parents had left with everybody else that afternoon. Mary and John were celebrating their first anniversary with a trip to America. They were taking Mikey with him. Sherlock never would have admitted it, but he was lonely. He watched telly for a bit, and decided there was nothing good on. He would have started on a case, but the last time Brooklyn had come with him to a crime scene Sherlock had to give her three baths to wash all the blood out of her hair. Without John and Molly's help, he couldn't get out.

Sherlock fell back against the couch, rubbing his temples. He couldn't get the image of Molly out of his head. The way she had sat so simply on his couch, as though she hadn't run off with his son and left him with her daughter a year before. "In fairness," Sherlock told himself, "It did turn out to be the best thing that ever happened to you."

Right at this moment, Brooklyn burst into tears. Sherlock grumbled as he rose from the couch. "Maybe not the _best _thing," he said to his daughter as he rocked her. Brooklyn calmed almost immediately when he picked her up, and a moment later she was fast asleep again, breathing quietly in his arms.

Sherlock smiled down at her in the dark. Molly might have left much too soon, but she had seen her daughter take her first steps, and to Molly, that was probably all that mattered. He sighed. Brooklyn would go another year without seeing her mother. At this rate, Brooklyn wouldn't understand that she had family aside from Sherlock and the Watsons. Ever.

Molly had almost cried when Brooklyn had stumbled over to Sherlock's mother and started babbling to her. Sherlock had sheepishly explained that Brooklyn had been speaking short words for a while now, so, for her, this wasn't all that unusual.

Sherlock frowned again. Molly had seemed so _sad_ through the whole thing. She hadn't even said goodbye to Brooklyn when she left, and Sherlock was sure that she had only come for Brooklyn. He sat in the dark, wondering at how mothers could so easily leave their children behind for their own convenience.

Suddenly, Molly was standing next to him. She seemed to be glowing. Sherlock looked around and realised that, no, Molly wasn't glowing, he was just standing in a much more well lit place. "Where am I?" he started to ask, but stopped almost immediately after asking it, for, at that very second, he heard a similar voice asking the same question. Spinning around, Sherlock jumped back at the sight of a younger him, sitting on Molly's sofa.

"You're safe," Molly said, going and sitting next to him. "But… what happened?" asked younger Sherlock. Molly took a deep breath. Sherlock smiled; he remembered how often she had used this as a calming method around him. Then the smile disappeared. "You've started the drugs again," Molly was saying. Sherlock felt his heart clench. Molly was always so honest with him, even when he had been such a bad person.

Young Sherlock seemed not to think so. "Oh," was all he said. Then: "I'll see you in class." He stood up and walked right out the door. Sherlock wanted to follow him, to remember where he was going, but he found that he couldn't move. Molly sat on the sofa alone. She had a smile fixed on her face, but Sherlock realised with a shock that tears were streaming down her cheeks. He went and sat next to her. She turned to face him. "Oh, Sherlock," she sighed as though she were remembering something brilliant. "You were so magnificent. So wonderful. So perfect. You were so very powerful. And you crushed me."

She slowly leaned in and kissed his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock," she whispered, handing him a mysteriously wrapped package with a lipstick-smudged bow. Sherlock tore it open, inside was Brooklyn. His eyebrows creased.

He looked up at Molly, who was smiling at him expectantly. He glanced back down at Brooklyn, now giggling in his lap. "This is new," he said to her. She smiled. "Merry Christmas and a happy new year."

Sherlock woke with a start. All around him, people were shouting "Happy new year!" Sherlock groaned and rubbed his eyes. The same dream. He'd had the same dream every night since his childrens' first birthday, and every night it was the same. Until tonight. He'd never unwrapped a gift from Molly before.

Sherlock thought back to several Christmases before, when he'd embarrassed her so much in front of everybody. He had never opened that gift. He looked down at Brooklyn sleeping in his lap.

She had had quite a growth spurt in the last few months. Her hair had lightened considerably; it was now a warm shade of brown. It was still incredibly curly, which was a struggle for an almost two-year old. Sherlock often just pinned it back to keep it out of her way. Her eyes were exactly the same: a deep, clear blue that went straight into your heart. Her smile was a little bigger now, but it was set in the exact same place on her creamy skin.

Sherlock stroked her cheek softly. She reminded him more and more of Molly with each day. Molly. The mention of the woman who had meant so much to him brought back his memory from the dream. He looked around the social gathering, half-expecting her to be making her way through the crowd to sit with him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and imagined how different everything would be if he and Molly had actually been together.

For starters, Mary wouldn't have had to explain to Brooklyn why she didn't have a mum like the other girls. Brooklyn would have a constant female role model in her life. Sherlock wouldn't be raising her alone. Sherlock wouldn't be alone. He didn't even want to imagine how different Molly would be. "She wouldn't have moved however far away from everything she knew and loved so that I would be a good parent," he told himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes and thought of Molly, her crooked smile, her messy hair, her big brown eyes… And, just like every night after he woke up from this dream, Sherlock smiled.


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine

"Daddy play ball," said Brooklyn for the second time, pointing at the toy ball that had recently been the bane of Sherlock's existence. "Daddy can't play ball right now, Brooklyn," he said. He winced at Brooklyn's even more demanding, "Daddy play ball NOW!"

Brooklyn's 'terrible twos' were approaching, and everything Sherlock's parenting books said were true. She spoke much more, was demanding, pouted when she didn't get her way, and was _very _emotional.

Sherlock sighed as Brooklyn started to cry. Instead of picking her up, he continued to work. A moment later, John and Mary walked in with Mikey. Mary started to rush in to help Brooklyn, but Sherlock stopped her.

"If we stop Brooklyn from crying now, it will give her the wrong idea. She'll quickly become spoiled. If we tell her to stop crying, she'll begin to think that it's wrong to feel sad or angry. We hardly want that. She'll stop crying soon," he said to her.

At this moment, Mikey toddled over to Brooklyn and plopped down next to her. "Baby play ball?" asked Brooklyn. Mikey gurgled and accepted the ball she handed him. He put it in his mouth. The parents all watched as Brooklyn demonstrated the 'proper way' to roll a ball back and forth.

"Ha!" John said as Brooklyn began rolling the ball at the wall so it would bounce back towards her. "That's definitely your kid, Sherlock, if she plays with a _wall_ to exclude the other children." "I never played with anything as trivial as a toy ball," Sherlock said. "I'm sure she got that from her mother." Mary laughed. "You really didn't know Molly at all growing up, did you?" she asked Sherlock.

Sherlock ignored her and turned back to his computer. "And besides, was there ever any doubt that she wasn't my child?" he asked, and John couldn't answer, because, there really wasn't.

As of late, Brooklyn had grown an inch and a half ("50% more than the average two year old in the first month," Sherlock had said with a smile). Her hair was down to her shoulders now, or it would be, if it weren't so curly. Brooklyn had taken to wearing headbands every waking hour to keep it out of her eyes. Her hair had remained its darker shade of brown. Her eyes had only increased in size, and she had mastered her pitiful puppy look. Several times a day, much to Sherlock's displeasure, people on the streets stopped to compliment her beauty.

And she was pretty. The pale tone of her skin worried Mary a little bit, but finally Sherlock had told her to "Just stop worrying, Mary," in slightly less kind words.

Brooklyn picked up her ball and ran into her room. She came back out clutching a lovely pink bunny, which she held up to Mary and John. "Molly stopped by again?" asked John, recognising her signature gift. "No," said Sherlock, not meeting their eyes. "I suppose the gift means that she will not be attending Brooklyn's second birthday party."

"Oh, Sherlock," said Mary, patting his shoulder. "Do you really think Molly would miss it?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I do," he said over his shoulder. "She left her baby with _me, _for God's sake. She's seen the girl twice in her life, and Brooklyn doesn't recognise her. You're more of a mother to her than Molly is. Any mother who can do that can choose to not show up at her baby's birthday party."

Mary sighed. "You don't understand how mums think, Sherlock," she said. Sherlock huffed out a breath of air, but his back was straighter and he looked like he might be smiling. "Daddy play ball?" Brooklyn asked him, holding out her ball again. Sherlock looked at her. "Yes, Brooklyn," he said finally. "Daddy can play ball with you."


	30. Chapter Thirty

The day of Brooklyn's birthday party started beautifully. "How could anyone miss a party on a day like this?" Sherlock asked Brooklyn as he opened the curtains and looked outside. Brooklyn sat on the floor feeding herself rice cereal, humming happy birthday to herself.

"Brooklyn have presents?" she asked Sherlock. He smiled at her. "Yes, Brooklyn, you will have presents," he replied. Brooklyn jumped up and down. "Brooklyn has presents _now_?" she asked sweetly. Sherlock shook his head. "No, Brooklyn," he said. "You will have presents later when Aunt Mary and Uncle John and Mrs. Hudson and," here Sherlock took a deep breath, "Uncle Mycroft and Miss Anthea come." Brooklyn grinned again. "Gramma Granpa?" she asked. Sherlock shook his head again. "Grandma and Grandpa can't make it today," he said to the small girl. "That's why they brought you your present earlier."

At this, Brooklyn smiled and ran to her room. When she returned, she held the ballerina doll from Mr. and Mrs. Holmes in her hands. She had named the small doll 'Molly.'

By the time the party had started, Sherlock had worked Brooklyn into the party outfit Mrs. Holmes had given her; a fluffy pink tutu, white silky shirt, tights, and lovely little ballet slippers. Mary, Mrs. Hudson, and Anthea all adored it.

"Oh, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson, smiling at the little girl running around. Sherlock sat watching her himself. "It's a pity you had to give up your cases for this," said Mycroft. "Right," said Sherlock briskly, shaking his head at John.

Sherlock was still quite deep in the detective business, but Sherlock already disapproved of him raising Brooklyn enough. A silence fell across the room, only broken by Brooklyn and Mikey playing in the corner.

Molly stood outside the flat, listening to the jokes of her friends and family. She looked down at the small boy she held in her arms. She set him on the ground outside the door and handed him a small bag with a note pinned on the top of it. Kissing him on the forehead, she said quietly, "I'll be back soon, love." She knocked on the door and walked away.

Sherlock heard the knock and jumped up, swinging open the door. He was surprised to see his son sitting there on his own. Matthew looked up at him, and, with a little lisp, said, "Mumma is come back fow me." Sherlock bent down and picked him up.

"Molly left him here by himself?" asked Mycroft. "In a flat full of people he doesn't know? In a place who knows how far from where he lives?" Mary glared at him, but he continued. "She must not be quite as good a mother as I thought."

Sherlock glared at him, too. "She's obviously a fantastic mother," he said. "Judging from the creases on Matthew's shirt." He set Matthew on the floor and took the bag away from him.

Brooklyn curiously walked over to where Matthew sat. Plopping down next to him, she started speaking. "Hi," she said. "Hi," he responded. "I is Brooklyn," Brooklyn said. Pointing, she said, "There daddy. And there Mikey." Matthew looked around. "I is Matthew," he said, "and Mumma isn't hewe right now. She be back soon." Brooklyn nodded and offered him the block she held in her hand.

Sherlock watched this from where he stood in the kitchen. He held the note from Molly in his hands. It read:

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I bet you'd very much like a chance to be with your son for a day, even if he doesn't realise that you are, in fact, his father. I'll be back to pick him up at three. If that is too soon or too late, you know where to reach me. He should be fine, but, if he gets bored, hand him a magnifying glass. Brooklyn's gift is in the bag._

_See you soon._

Sherlock watched the children interact curiously. They seemed to be playing well together, Brooklyn, Mikey and Matthew. Mikey stayed closer to his parents, but Brooklyn and Matthew were both very comfortable. Brooklyn prattled on and on, and Matthew didn't make a sound.

"Is my birthday," Brooklyn told Matthew. Matthew looked at her dully. "It's my biwfday," he said. "No!" shouted Brooklyn, stamping her foot. "Is _my _birthday!" Matthew glared at her and straightened his back. "It's. My. Biwfday," he said slowly. Brooklyn hit his arm. Matthew hit her back.

Immediately they were both crying. Sherlock went and sat on the floor next to them. "Would you like to hear something cool?" he asked them. Their tears disappeared. "Yes, Daddy," said Brooklyn. "Yes," said Matthew. Sherlock lowered his voice to a whisper. "It's both of your birthdays today!" he said excitedly. "Now isn't that cool?"

Matthew looked confused. "Mumma say I has special biwfday," he said. "You do," Sherlock told him. "Brooklyn has a special birthday, too." Brooklyn nodded, and all was well between the two. As Sherlock stood up and headed back into the kitchen, he heard Brooklyn say, "I has no mumma."

Matthew responded, "Do you has papa?" Brooklyn nodded. Matthew looked confused. "I has no papa," he told her. Brooklyn thought about this slowly. "Aunt Mary says I has special famly. We both has special famly!" she said, a smile spreading across her face. Matthew smiled, too. "We has a special famwy," he said.

_**Author's Note:**_

_How do you like what's going on? Review, please!_

_If you have any ideas that you think are good, let me know and I'll see if I can work them in. I've already got some, but I'm sure I could fit in a few more!_

_To __SherlollyShipperAllTheWay__, don't worry, I think we'll be seeing a bit more of Molly now ;)_


	31. Chapter Thirty-One

Molly arrived to pick up Matthew a few minutes after the last guest had left. "Mumma!" shouted Matthew, launching himself into her arms. Laughing, Molly lifted him up and help him to her. "Erm, how was the party?" she asked Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled. "It was good," he told her. "Brooklyn and Matthew had a lot of fun, didn't you, Brooklyn?" The little girl smiled up at him from where she sat playing with a toy. "Hi!" she said to Molly. "Hi," Molly said. "Happy birthday, Brooklyn. And Matthew," she added with a smile.

Matthew struggled to escape his mother's hold. Sighing, she put him down. Matthew ran to Brooklyn. "That's Mumma," he said to the small girl. "Hi," Brooklyn said again, waving at Molly. "I'm… I'm Molly," Molly said. Brooklyn grinned. "I is Brooklyn," she responded. "I know," Molly laughed.

Brooklyn looked at her ballerina doll laying nearby. "My dolly is Molly," she said, looking confused. "Sometimes people can have the same name," Sherlock said. Molly nodded. "And the same birthday," she added, smiling. Sherlock looked at her. "And the same parents," he said meaningfully.

Molly looked away from him, towards the children playing on the ground. "Alright, Matthew," she said, extending a hand. "Let's go home." Matthew obediently stood, but as he walked towards Molly he said, "I no wanna go back on plane, Mumma." Molly bent down and picked him up. "You don't have to go back on the plane," she said. "Remember what Mumma told you?"

Matthew smiled. "I 'member," he said. Molly smiled back at him and turned towards Sherlock. "Can you say goodbye to da-to Mr. Sherlock and Brooklyn?" she asked the toddler. He waved in response. "Bye-bye Shewlock, bye-bye Bwooklyn."

The little girl waved back at her friend. "Bye, Matthew!" she exclaimed as Molly turned and started to leave. "Wait!" Sherlock said. Molly turned. "Yes?" she asked. Sherlock turned to Brooklyn. "Brooklyn, did you give Matthew a bag?" he asked Brooklyn. "Oh!" she said, jumping up. She ran over to where Matthew stood next to his mother and grabbed his hand. "Come on, Matthew!" she shouted.

Molly smiled as they ran into the kitchen. Sherlock turned to Molly and jokingly rolled his eyes. "I apologise for anything in that goody bag that is not intended for a child to have access to," he said to Molly. "Brooklyn packed them." Molly laughed. "It's alright," she said. "Matthew is quite smart."

Sherlock nodded. "I can see that." They heard the children running back towards the room they were standing in. Before they walked in, Sherlock leaned forward and kissed Molly full on the mouth. He immediately stepped back and put a smile on his face as the children ran in. Matthew held a small bag in his hands.

"Mumma, look what I has!" he said to his mother. Molly nodded, but she wasn't really paying attention. "Bye, guys," she said, looking at Brooklyn. She looked up at Sherlock. He looked right back at her. "See you later, Sherlock," she said softly. Sherlock nodded again. "Sorry," he said. Molly smiled. "Don't be," she said. "Bye."

Once she and Matthew had left, Brooklyn turned to her father. "Daddy, can I has cake?" she asked. Sherlock ruffled her hair playfully, making it look even more crazy. "How do you ask?" he said. Brooklyn sighed. "Can I has some cake _please_?" she asked again. "Yes, you may have a little bit more cake," said Sherlock.

Molly and Matthew exited their cab, and Molly took a deep breath. They were outside her old flat. The last time she had been in there was two years ago exactly, the night (or really early morning) she had gone into labor with her babies. And look where they were now.

"Mumma," said Matthew, tugging at her hand. His mumma had told him a lot about where she had lived before he came to stay with her, and he was excited to see the bedroom she had told him about. Without waiting, Molly swung open the door and led Matthew inside.

It was just how she had remembered, with a little more dust. She took the impatient Matthew into his room. "Wow!" he said, looking around at the bright walls. "We might have to change some things up," said Molly, more to herself than to Matthew. "It's kind of dusty, and it was made for two." "You want two mes, Mumma?" asked Matthew, looking up at her. Molly rumpled his hair. "_I _didn't want two of you," she told him. "I wanted _us _to want two of you." She sighed a little bit.

Once Matthew had been tucked into one of the cribs, Molly went into the sitting room and turned on the telly. She had easily regained her job as a pathologist, and was preparing to go back to work in the next few days. She made a mental list of things that needed to happen to turn this flat back into a home. Taking a deep breath, Molly focused on her goal: she and Matthew were moving back to London.


	32. Chapter Thirty-Two

Molly woke with a start. She looked around, unsure of herself, before she remembered: she was in her old flat. The one in London. She was asleep on the sofa. Resting her head against the back of the sofa, Molly looked around and remembered all the pain she had suffered here. She wondered if that would return.

Then Molly thought of Sherlock's kiss. He had been the reason behind all of the fresh scars from the past three years, and, so far, he hadn't returned to his old ways.

Molly sighed. She was back in her daughter's life, and her son had his sister and father back. But Molly didn't know how it would all work out.

A sharp noise shattered Molly's reverie. The phone. It was ringing. Yawning, Molly rose to pick it up. "He-" Molly yawned again. "Hello?" she said into the phone. "Molly!" It was Sherlock, and he sounded frantic.

Immediately the tiredness left Molly. "Sherlock," she said. "What's wrong?" "It's Brooklyn," said Sherlock. Dread filled Molly. "Is she alright?" Molly asked. Silence greeted her question. "Sherlock Holmes!" demanded Molly. "Is my baby alright?" "I think you'd better get over here," said Sherlock in a strained voice.

It took Molly a while to get dressed and rouse Matthew, but, fifteen minutes later, they found themselves in a cab towards Baker Street. "Mumma," said Matthew, resting his head in her lap, "Where we going?" Molly bent down to kiss her son's forehead. "We're going to see Sherlock," she said softly.

A few minutes later, they were outside Sherlock's flat. Immediately Molly knew something terrible had happened. There were two police cars outside, and officers were everywhere.

"Molly!" Hearing a familiar voice calling her name, Molly turned. "Greg," she said in relief. Officer Lestrade looked pleased-and somewhat confused-to see her. "What's going on?" Molly asked him. Lestrade rubbed the back of his head. "Go talk to Sherlock," he replied, pointing.

Sherlock stood right outside the flat, next to Mrs. Hudson. He spoke to an officer. Molly carried the now sleeping Matthew over to where he stood. "You'd better do your job, or I'll…" Sherlock was saying. Molly cleared her throat. Sherlock spun around. "Molly!" he said, relief filling his voice. Without a word, Molly handed him the sleeping child. Turning to the officer, she said, "What's going on?"

The officer looked down at her notes as though that would give her the answer. It was Sherlock, however, who replied. "It's Brooklyn," he said to her. "She was… She was kidnapped."

Molly woke the next morning, feeling quite confused. The first thing she thought of was Brooklyn, and the second was, "Where the hell am I?"

She lay in a soft bed, in a clean, somewhat dark bedroom. Matthew slept next to her. It wasn't until Molly saw the gun on a shelf in the corner that she realised. _Sherlock's bedroom. _"You don't have time to freak out," Molly told herself. She opened the door quietly, hoping to not wake Matthew.

Sherlock sat in the kitchen, but instead of looking as tired and ragged as Molly knew she did, he looked wide awake. He tapped at his computer neatly. "So, presumably, we are looking for a 5' 7" white male, suspected brown hair, eyes as well…"

Sherlock saw Molly standing in the doorway. "Molly," he said simply, and, setting his computer aside, he rose and hugged her.

"Whoever the kidnapper was," Sherlock said, "he did not do a very neat job cleaning up after himself." "But…" Molly questioned, "Why was she kidnapped in the first place?" Sherlock didn't answer at first, and Molly was about to ask again when he said, "You said it yourself. In your letter. The one you left years ago. Living with me isn't necessarily the safest place."

Molly crossed her arms and swore. "I'm such an idiot," she said. "No, you're not," said Sherlock without looking up. Molly ignored him and started cursing herself under her breath. After a minute of this, Sherlock looked up and put his fingertips together. "Molly," he said firmly. "You aren't an idiot."

Molly looked at him before covering her face with her hands. Sherlock watched her for a moment. "Molly," he said. Molly ignored him. "MOLLY," Sherlock said loudly. Molly looked up. "I promise you that I will get her back," said Sherlock softly, looking into Molly's eyes. And, at that moment, Molly believed him more than anything.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Yay! Molly's back! I didn't realise how much I'd missed her until she came back! _

_To __AlphaSapphire412__, it's really fun for me to write! I'm homeschooled, so I have several extra hours a day. It helps that I love this story, too!_


	33. Chapter Thirty-Three

Matthew loved it at Sherlock's flat. After they had got over the general confusion of 'Brooklyn-Isn't-Here,' he had quite a good time. Sherlock was letting him sleep in Brooklyn's bed, and much to Sherlock's disapproval, Molly moved to the couch.

This left Sherlock the bedroom, but he wasn't there that much. If he was at the flat, he was focusing everything on locating Brooklyn. That, and rebuilding his relationship with Molly.

She and him were on pretty good terms, but there wasn't much time to talk. Molly was working on finding Brooklyn as well, and she still had to go to work. With all that was going on, it often fell on the Watsons to take care of Matthew-not that they minded.

"Tea?" Molly offered Sherlock one evening. He accepted it with a smile before looking back at his computer screen. It had been two days since Brooklyn's disappearance, and it was with great relief that Sherlock announced that he had found her.

"That's great, Sherlock," Molly said with a smile. "When will she be back here?" Sherlock's smile wilted a bit. "Well, as the kidnapper hasn't made any attempts to contact us for anything, there might be something a bit darker on his or her mind. Perhaps child slavery. Or… Something worse." Molly looked confused. "So?" she asked.

"So we can assume that there is more than one child that has been taken, which means that we may or may not require…" Sherlock took a deep breath and spat the word out. "_Backup."_

Everyone went to bed. Matthew was the only one who slept peacefully. Molly was awake praying that everything would go according to plan and her baby would be safe. And Sherlock…

"How to keep them safe…" He was pacing back and forth in his room, wondering how he could retrieve Brooklyn and keep her, her brother, and, of course, Molly safe while they were associated with him. Giving them up was not an option. "I, unlike Molly, am not that strong a person," he said to himself.

Molly, who had decided to make herself a cup of tea to pass the time, heard his restless muttering. She knocked on his door, and took a step back as it swung open.

Sherlock stared at Molly, who stared right back at him. "Yes?" he said finally. "I saw that you were awake and wondered if you wanted a cuppa?" she asked. Sherlock nodded and followed her out, refusing to allow his mind to dwell on Molly.

"Thank you," he said as she handed him the cup. She sat across from him with her own. "What's up?" she said. "We are," Sherlock responded with a smile. Molly laughed, and then, still smiling, shook her head. "What's wrong?" asked Sherlock.

Molly shook her head again. "Nothing," she said. "Just… When I left here all those years ago, I left a consulting detective who denied emotions. That person was a genius and knew it. He didn't care what people thought about him. All he cared about was being right. And now there's you." Sherlock smiled at her. "As long as you still love this me," he surprised himself by saying.

Molly seemed surprised, too. There was silence for a moment, and then, "Of course I do," she said. Sherlock smiled slightly and then looked at her. "You hesitated," he said. Molly shook her head. "I hesitated?" she asked, smiling slightly at him. Sherlock smiled back at her. "You hesitated."

Molly and Sherlock sat in silence for a while. Occasionally one or the other would break the silence with a question or a comment, but, overall, there was silence. Then Matthew woke up.

"Hi, Mumma!" he said cheerily as he skipped into the kitchen. Then: "Hi, daddy!" Both Molly and Sherlock froze. Slowly, Sherlock turned to look at the small boy. Molly looked at Sherlock. "Good morning, Matthew," said Sherlock. He had trouble containing his smile.

Matthew grinned up at him. "Bwookwyn comes back now?" he asked. Molly smiled at the boy, but her heart was heavy. "We think so," she promised him. Matthew cheered. "Can I has bweakfast?" he asked.

Molly got him breakfast and prepared for work. When she came out of the bathroom, Matthew was nowhere to be seen. "Where's Matthew?" she asked Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at her. "He's playing a game in Brooklyn's room," he replied.

Molly couldn't make sense of the impish look in Sherlock's eye. Watching him carefully, she called over her shoulder to Matthew. "Mumma's going to go to work now, Matthew!" she said. "Aunt Mary is going to bring Mikey over to play with you!"

"Otay!" came Matthew's response. Molly looked back at Sherlock. He was grinning at her. "You get our daughter back," said Molly. Sherlock nodded. "I will," he said, rising from his chair. He approached Molly and kissed her on the cheek. His eyes smiled at her. "Have fun at work," he said, and with that, Molly left for work, her heart beating slightly faster than it had been moments before, Sherlock prepared to go and retrieve their daughter from a maniacal kidnapper, and Matthew danced in anticipation of a playdate with his favorite 'cousin' Mikey Watson.

_**Author's Note:**_

_I'm sorry! I know I posted so little yesterday, I feel like a horrible person (meanwhile, all the _good_ fanfictions have authors that post once a year :P)! I hope to post quite a bit this week to make up for yesterday. I literally got home from church and slept until six p.m. And then I watched Sherlock until eleven. It was worth it. There will be a lot happening in the next few chapters! I hope to have up to chapter forty-five posted by Saturday! Review, please! Much love to my favorite reviewers, AlphaSapphire412 and SherlollyShipperAlltheWay! XO, Rusty Tater Tot_


	34. Chapter Thirty-Four

Sherlock was soon at the old warehouse he had traced Brooklyn to. "Shut up, Grant," he said to the leader of the police crew that was standing there. Lestrade looked surprised. "I didn't say anything," he said. "No, but you were about to," replied Sherlock. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

Sherlock looked over the squad cars that were parked nearby. His backup was standing there, holding guns and radios and tasers. He wholeheartedly wished that they didn't have to be there, but he knew that if he wanted to ensure his daughter's safety, he would have to deal with it.

"Alright," shouted Lestrade. "We're going to move in. Call someone if you find anything. Anything at all. Sherlock, what's the plan?" Sherlock looked at the officers again. "Alright, Graham," he said, "Send three men in through the back, another three men through the side. Have a few men stand out here as guards. I'll go in through the front." Lestrade nodded. "I'll go in with you," he said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but didn't argue. A moment later, they were inside. It was cold, dark, dusty and damp. "Not the ideal place," muttered Sherlock, looking around. "Someone's definitely been here. A tall, muscled man, bald. He's not bad with children but he is scary, so he usually has to deal with some struggling."

Lestrade stared at him. "How in bloody hell did you get that?" he asked. Sherlock glared over his shoulder. "Look where we are, Greg." Lestrade laughed. "You got my name right," he told Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him. Lestrade looked around.

"Not getting anything," he said to Sherlock. With a sigh, Sherlock began explaining quickly. "His footsteps in the dust," Sherlock motioned to the ground. "They're sizable and fairly heavy, thus, a man. He's quite tall, you can tell by the ceiling. He's bumped his head on it every few steps, and there are no bristles in the clear spot, which signifies baldness. A man that tall and threatening could easily just drag a small child by his or her arm, but these smaller footsteps next to his show that the child didn't struggle, she was led along willingly. Except for the occasional scuffle, probably provoked by the man's scariness."

Lestrade nodded. "Makes sense," he said. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Suddenly, he stopped. "What was that?" he asked. Lestrade looked around. "What?" he asked. "Listen," hissed Sherlock. There was silence for a moment. "I don't-" Lestrade started saying, but quickly stopped.

There was a soft shuffling sound coming from down the hall. Before Lestrade could get another word in, Sherlock took off running. A minute later, Lestrade caught up with him. Panting, he started to say, "Sherlock… Don't do that…" but what he saw stopped him in his tracks.

Sherlock kneeled on the ground, clutching a filthy, bedraggled but smiling Brooklyn to his chest. "Hi, Daddy," said Brooklyn. Seeing the officer standing nearby, she said, "Hi, Uncle G-Grad-Gram-Hi." Lestrade couldn't help but smile.

Brooklyn was fine. Her beautiful blue eyes shone out from the limp, dark curls that fell around her face. The pajamas that she had been wearing when she was taken were filthy and torn. She looked down at herself and looked up at her father. "Brooklyn yucky," she said. Sherlock stuck out his tongue, making her laugh.

At that point Lestrade's radio started beeping. "Talk to me," he said, pressing the button. "Sir, there's no sign of anyone here," came the reply from the other end. Sherlock listened with interest. "Alright," said Lestrade. "Get everyone out."

Sherlock carried Brooklyn outside. "We're going to take a ride in the police car," he told his daughter. She laughed. Once they were outside, she gasped. "Molly!" she wailed. Sherlock bounced her in his arms. "What's wrong, Brooklyn?" he asked. "Molly is inside!" Brooklyn cried. Lestrade looked over.

"What's the issue, Sherlock?" he asked. Sherlock sighed. "Brooklyn left her doll inside," he said. "I'll go and get her. Here." He handed Brooklyn to Lestrade and turned back to the building.

Once inside, Sherlock wasted no time in heading back to where he had discovered Brooklyn. There was a small door he had not noticed earlier. He went inside and found a small blanket, a pile of old food, and Brooklyn's ballerina doll Molly.

He had picked up Molly and was walking back out when he heard the scream. He would have recognised it anywhere. Dropping the doll, he turned and ran towards the noise.

He reached a room at the end of the long hallway. Wrenching the door open, he stepped inside and his heart stopped. For standing in that room was a tall, bald, muscled man with tattoos covering his skin, and in one of those bald man's hands he held a gun. The end of the gun was pressed against the side of the head of Molly Hooper.


	35. Chapter Thirty-Five

Sherlock slowly held his hands up. "Hello, Holmes," grunted the man. "I've heard a lot about you. Took a while to find your family, but I did." Molly stood still as death in his death hold, her face paler than Brooklyn's.

Sherlock, with his hands still held up, smiled pleasantly. "You did indeed. How were they?" The man spat on the floor. "That little brat of yours was annoying," he said. "Daddy this and daddy that. I got _so sick _of hearing about daddy." Sherlock nodded his head. "You know how two-year olds can be," he said.

The man nodded as well. "I do. In fact, I had my own two-year old, and seven-year old." "Had?" asked Sherlock. "My wife left me and took them when she learned about Moriarty," said the man. "Ah…" said Sherlock, and he looked the man over.

A moment later he said, "And you're Monty Carter, Moriarty's cousin." "Second cousin," said the man, but he nodded in confirmation. "So now you're getting even," said Sherlock, tilting his head slightly to the side. The man nodded again.

"An eye for an eye, Holmes," he said. "Or, in the case, a family for a family." Sherlock considered this for a moment. "But," he said, "We've already got Brooklyn and Matthew, and Molly won't be here much longer." With this he started towards them, and Carter quickly cocked the gun. Sherlock paused, his hands still held up.

"Take another step, Holmes, and you'll never see your pretty little wife again," Carter threatened. Sherlock smiled slightly. "Wife? Molly?" he asked. Carter grinned. "I suppose a perfectionist like you wouldn't ever marry something like her," he said. "She's so small and meek and so easily… broken." With the last word Carter violently pulled Molly's hair, jerking her head back.

Sherlock started towards them again, but Carter pushed Molly back into position with his gun. "You couldn't stand something like that," he said. "You need someone strong and powerful, someone you can enjoy having the upper hand against." Sherlock spoke as though they were having a pleasant conversation. "If that's how you describe Molly's antonym, you obviously don't know her at all," he said.

Carter laughed. "It's difficult to get familiar with someone when they're gagged and bound and all that. I'll take your word for it, though. I was only making the point that you'd never marry someone like this bitch."

Sherlock smiled. "On the contrary," he said. "It's very possible that that might someday happen if you'd, you know, stop threatening her life. It would be hard to marry a dead person." Molly's eyes widened slightly.

Carter's grip on her tightened. "Not too hard," he said. "Or haven't you heard-Irene Adler, dead, is getting married to… wait for it… Moriarty himself! I'm sure they'll have a delightful wedding, complete with a nice double grave."

Sherlock's lips clenched together painfully, but he maintained his smile. "They'll be perfect for one another," he said. Carter nodded with a grin. "A match made in a very scary part of heaven. Unlike you and Miss Hooper here."

He tugged on her hair again. "You have no idea how hard I worked to get her here," Carter said. "She's a fighter, this little chicklet of yours." Sherlock took a step forward and Carter swung the gun around to point at him.

"Think twice," he said. Sherlock paused for a moment, and then lunged. It was fast, but Carter was faster. Swerving the tip of the gun to Molly's head, he pushed it against her and pulled the trigger.

BANG.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hi there, figured I'd interrupt this dramatic moment with a quick word from the author (aka me): I swear I'm not Moffat. Anyway, the next two or three chapters should be up soon, I won't disturb you from your reading anymore._

**_Edit:_**

_to AlphaSapphire412, what, would you have preferred him to have shot Brooklyn or Sherlock or Matthew or Mrs. Hudson? If you're reading a Sherlock fanfiction, you're probably a Sherlock fan, which means that you know this like the back of your hand: Drama trumps happy endings. This doesn't mean that this won't have a happy ending, it just means that there must be a lot of drama leading up to this._

_Review!_


	36. Chapter Thirty-Six

"_Sherlock!" Molly's voice rang in his ears. He closed his eyes, allowing the darkness to vibrate inside of him. "Sherlock!" Molly said again. He finally opened one of his eyes, staring at Molly. "Please leave me alone," he said. "I want to see," she insisted, and finally Sherlock had listened. He slowly unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off. He sucked in air sharply as she ran her hands over the thick scars forming on his ribcage. "I don't get why you want to see… _this_," Sherlock said. Molly winced as she touched a particularly deep cut. "I want to see all the times you've needed me that I wasn't there for you," she replied, and then Sherlock knew. Deep down, he had always known, but now he knew for certain just who Molly Grace Hooper was._

"Molly!" Sherlock bellowed. Molly's eyes found his one last time, and, for one beautiful second, she looked at him. Then time started to speed up and Molly crumpled to the ground.

"Molly!" Sherlock shouted again. Carter laughed as he dove to the ground and lifted Molly's head. Blood slowly trickled from the bullet wound, making it appear much less deadly than it actually was. "Molly," Sherlock said softly, and bent forward to press his lips against her forehead.

"Now you know, Holmes," said Carter, and Sherlock looked at him. Carter walked over to Molly's fallen body and put all his weight on one of her legs. It snapped, and Molly's eyes didn't even open. "There you go," grinned Carter. "Now you know." Sherlock glared at him and managed to say, "She's safe. Your wife. Your children. They're safe. They left you to be safe. I saved their lives… and you ruined mine."

Carter wasn't smiling now. "I've got to kill you," said Sherlock, but he didn't move. "I've got to kill you like you've killed me. My family will never be safe." "Of course not," said Carter humorlessly. "I don't believe for a second that you'll kill me, though. Not here, not in front of all these people, not with the same weapon that killed her." Carter motioned to Molly's form on the ground.

Sherlock turned back to her and took her hand. "Molly," he mumbled, tracing the hole on her head. "Molly," he said, and a single tear landed on her face. To Sherlock's surprise, a hand weakly squeezed his own. His eyes flew open and he wrenched his hand from hers, nearly jumping in anticipation as he took her pulse.

"Oh," came the voice from behind him, and Sherlock turned to see Lestrade standing there. "Brooklyn?" he asked, and his voice came out an octave higher than usual. Lestrade nodded. "Donovan's got her," he said. Sherlock nodded towards Molly. "She's alive. Get an ambulance here. _NOW!"_

Sherlock sat Molly up and leaned her against the wall, applying gentle pressure to the wound. "Molly," he said to her. "Molly." Molly didn't respond, and Sherlock leaned his head against the wall.

"How is she alive?" asked Lestrade, back from his phone call. Sherlock didn't move his eyes from Molly as he spoke. "The human brain is much like an aeroplane with twin engines," he said. "The plane can tolerate with only one of it's engines for a short amount of time. Carter was a lousy shot, he made the mistake of shooting from the back rather than the side. The bullet, rather than going straight through both halves."

Sherlock bent forward to press his hand against the side of Molly's ashen face. "The bullet also appears to have missed the brain stem and the thalamus, and, hopefully, the major blood vessels." Lestrade nodded. "Yeah," he said. Sherlock sighed and went back to whispering to Molly.

"Molly," he said. "You remember that time, all those years ago, when you first realised that I was on drugs?" Lestrade, still standing behind him, scoffed. "Yes, the last thing the dying patient will hear is 'Remember when I did drugs?' " Sherlock glared at him. "She won't die," he promised.

Lestrade fell silent, and Sherlock continued. "You said to me, 'I want to know all the times you've needed me that I wasn't there for you,' and I didn't want to show you anything. I didn't want you to get sucked into it. But when I looked at you, I could tell that it was too late on that front."

Molly's finger twitched. " 'I want to know all the times you've needed me,' you said," Sherlock said. "And I couldn't admit that I needed you every hour of every day. I couldn't admit it because I knew that if I told you that, you'd never leave my side, and I didn't want to be selfish. So I left."

Sherlock paused here, as though looking for the words he knew he needed to say. "I left, thinking it would be the best thing for you, and 'look at me, I'm such a hero, giving up everything I desire for her own good,' when, in reality, I killed you." Sherlock took a deep breath. "And if you die, you'll have killed me," he said softly, rocking back and forth.

He could hear the ambulance sirens, and a sudden flashback of that fateful day nearly four years ago.

"_Don't do it, Molly," and she stepped over the edge. She was being loaded into the ambulance by the time he reached her, and all he could think was, "How could I have done this? How could I have broken her?" and among those questions there lay a million more, a million questions that, had she died, never would be answered. And then she went away, and he saw her about six times in the next four years."_

"I never got to ask you," Sherlock whispered in her ear. "But, Molly Hooper, I don't want you to have the opportunity to go away again." He took a deep breath. "I want to know that if I don't get to say something important to you, I'll have another chance the next day, because you'll always be there."

He smiled a little bit as Molly squeezed his hand. "So," he continued, "Being the selfish git I always am, thinking only of having you to myself until death do we part…" He looked at the pale body bleeding onto his coat. "Molly Hooper, if you live through this, will you marry me?"

_**Author's Note:**_

_Just like Sherlock to propose to someone on their deathbed! I'm sorry I didn't update sooner, I got home from class today and pretty much just collapsed. I'm somewhat ill. I'm hoping that I won't wake up tomorrow and think, "What did I write in my delirium?" only to discover that I shot Molly or had Sherlock propose or something crazy like that!  
Oh. My. Gosh._

_I shot Molly._


	37. Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sherlock sat in the uncomfortable chair next to Molly's hospital bed. This time, he had ridden with her in the ambulance, holding her hand the whole way. The doctors were uncertain, but Sherlock had high hopes that she would make it.

At the insistence of the nurse, he had left briefly to change out of his bloodstained clothes. He had also called John and Mary, updating them quickly. They promised to watch Matthew and Brooklyn, and that they'd come visit as soon as Molly was well enough to see the children.

So Sherlock sat at Molly's bedside. In the search through her flat to make sure it wasn't bugged, Lestrade had come across her old diaries, and now Sherlock was leafing through them.

_Today I saw him across campus. He looks quite alright, luckily, not wasted. I don't know what I'll do if I hear from someone that he overdosed or anything like that. I suppose I'll always have to live with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes died because I couldn't stand up for myself. I remember my mum's last words to me: "You are beautiful, Molly. Start acting like it." I think she was delirious. I don't feel beautiful. I feel worthless. I've ruined who knows how many lives, and there's nobody left on this planet for me. I've torn this body apart, staining it in bloody scars that will never leave. At least I can die with the knowledge that no one will care how much I've wasted. I do wish I could talk to him one last time before I die, if only to apologise. "I'm sorry for saving your life," I'd say, and I'd turn and walk away, because really, how messed up would that be? "I'm sorry for saving you. I'm sorry." I never could understand how little he seemed to care about himself. He's incredible. He's beautiful and strong and smart and talented and look at me. We're opposites. And whoever wrote that saying 'opposites attract' was off her rocker, because, honestly, why would Sherlock Holmes ever look at me? Me, who's cut more than she has eaten. Me, who messed up his life by saving it. Me. I'm just me. He's Sherlock bloody Holmes and I'm Molly Unimportant Hooper. It spells MUH. MUH, internet slang for Meh, as in, I don't care. And I don't. How fitting that that is how he should see me. Don't judge a book by it's cover. Judge it by the girl on it's cover, and it's cover should adapt to suit your judgement. I love you, Sherlock Holmes, but I don't love myself. Not anymore._

"Mr. Holmes?" came the voice. Sherlock looked up and brushed a stray tear off of his cheek. "We're operating now," said the nurse. "You can't be in here for that." Sherlock looked at Molly's body, laying on the bed next to him. "I won't leave," he said, looking back at the nurse.

She crossed her arms and looked at him. He stared right back at her. At this moment the doctor came in. "Mr. Holmes, you have to leave," said the nurse. The doctor looked over towards the two. "What's the issue?" he asked. The nurse tapped her foot against the ground. "He won't leave," she told the doctor. He looked at Sherlock.

"Mr. Holmes, you'll distract our surgeons," said the doctor. Sherlock coughed into his hand. "Poor surgeons if they're distracted by someone sitting silently in the corner," he said. "Silently?" asked the nurse. Sherlock nodded. "Silently," he said.

The doctor rolled his eyes. "It's a moot point anyway," said the doctor, "because it's illegal." Sherlock scoffed. "One of those law things," he said. "Precisely," replied the doctor. Sherlock glared at him.

Before he could argue, however, the door swung open and a tall, slim body leaned against the door frame. "Hello, young Mr. Holmes," said Irene Adler. "You're… coming with me."


	38. Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sherlock sat across Irene in the small hospital cafe. She handed him a small, white envelope. He held it in his fingers for a moment as he looked at her across the table. "You got engaged?" he asked, his fingers probing the little envelope. She smiled at him. "Your invitation. For you and your… plus one."

Sherlock opened the envelope swiftly and pulled out a gilded piece of paper. "You are invited to the wedding of Irene Adler and…" Sherlock paused here, rereading what his eyes wouldn't accept. "Jim Moriarty," Irene finished for him.

Sherlock's eyes bored into her. "He can really be quite charming," she said. "I suppose so," Sherlock said. Irene smirked at him, her eyes glowing playfully. "Don't worry, Sherlock," she said. "I'll always have room for you in my heart." Her face grew serious.

"We're perfect for each other, you and I," she said. "You need someone powerful, willing to sacrifice, but also willing to stand up for herself. Or himself," she added. "And I need someone who can make a girl feel… Special." Sherlock scoffed. "You can, I know," Irene said.

When Sherlock didn't respond, Irene rolled her eyes. "Are you really not going to own up to the broken hearts you've given some girls? What about poor Molly, lying up there in that hospital bed because of you? You left her up there with the knowledge that someone who is very intent on killing her and her children knows where she is. And, might I add, that particular killer is staying with his cousin… and his cousin's fiance." With this last word, Irene looked away to examine her glossy red nails.

Sherlock leaned over the table to glare at Irene. "If you hurt her in any way…" he began threateningly, but Irene cut him off. "I'll leave that to you, Junior," she said. She reached a long finger out and rested it on his lips. "I'm sure you've got that handled nicely."

She stood up and gathered her bags together. As she swept out the door, she added over her shoulder, "I'll expect an invitation to your wedding… if it happens."

Sherlock was furious, but he refused to show it. When John called to ask if he could come pick up Brooklyn, Sherlock left willingly.

"Daddy!" exclaimed Brooklyn, running out and hugging her father's knees. Matthew came toddling out after her, but he didn't throw himself at Sherlock. "Thanks for watching them," Sherlock said to Mary. "How's Molly?" she asked. Sherlock sighed. "She'll live… I hope," he said.

Mary nodded. "Well, I'm off to work. John will swing by to pick up the kids around four," she said. Sherlock took his children back to Baker Street without another word to Mary.

Once he got there, Brooklyn took off to her room. Sherlock seated Matthew on the kitchen floor with a bowl of cheerios and went to call the hospital.

"How's Molly doing?" he asked once he got her nurse on the phone. "She's just coming out of surgery, she's a bit loopy," came the reply.

At that moment, Brooklyn came out of her room dressed in a child's princess dress. She had on a pink sparkly tiara and was waving a toy wand. Sherlock gave her a thumbs up as he continued talking on the phone.

"Yes, yes. Will she live?" he asked. The nurse on the other end of the phone sighed. "We certainly hope so," she said. "It isn't everyday a person gets shot in the head, and Mrs. Hooper was very lucky."

After he got off the phone, Sherlock sat down to watch a dance recital performed by Brooklyn, most of which was made up on the spot. Despite it's length (half an hour) and poor quality, Sherlock recorded it. "To show to your… To show to Miss Molly," he said.

Brooklyn and Matthew played quietly most of the afternoon, allowing Sherlock time to rest a bit after his long night. Around two o'clock, however, his phone chimed loudly.

_Enjoying your rest, Mr. Holmes? -IA_

Sherlock looked around carefully and did a quick sweep for bugs, but he didn't find anything. He closed his curtains and replied.

_Leave myself and my family alone. -SH_

The response was immediate.

_Does Doctor Hooper count as your family? -IA_

_YES. -SH_

_Alright, I won't hurt her. She looks so sweet lying here on her hospital bed. She seems to think I'm her mum. -IA_

_LEAVE HER ALONE. -SH_

_I am. Let's have dinner. -IA_

By the time John arrived to pick up the children, Sherlock was very restless. He hopped in a cab quickly and raced to the hospital. Once inside, he ran towards Molly's room. Swinging open the door, he was relieved to see that Molly was still there.

"Didn't you believe me when I said I wouldn't hurt her?" came Irene's voice from behind him. Sherlock sighed in an annoyance. "Why can't you just leave?" he started to ask, turning to face her.

But he suddenly stopped, because standing next to Irene Adler, pointing a gun at his head, was James Moriarty.


	39. Chapter Thirty-Nine

Moriarty stepped away from the wall. "How did you get in here?" asked Sherlock, eyeing the gun warily. It was Irene that answered. "I told you that he can be quite charming," she said. "It isn't my fault that you don't listen."

Sherlock looked back towards Molly again. "She's tired," said Moriarty, covering his mouth with his hand as though he was yawning. "She fell asleep." Sherlock turned to look at him. "She's boring!" Moriarty declared.

Sherlock glared at him. "Oh, look, Junior," said Irene, distracting Sherlock. "It looks like little Doctor Hooper has something for you." Sherlock turned to see a piece of paper had been crumpled and placed in Molly's hand. He stepped forward to take it, when suddenly a sharp pain in the back of his head spread through him and everything went dark.

When Sherlock's eyes reopened, he was in a dark room. The door was locked. Sherlock immediately began searching for a way out. There were no windows. There was no furniture to kick the door in. There were a few small holes in the wall, but they were much too tiny to be of any use to Sherlock. During his search he did notice a video camera latched to the ceiling.

"So this is how it will be?" he said. Turning towards the camera, he spoke louder. "You'll lock me in a room, and that's all? Wait for me to starve? Run out of air? Isn't that a bit _boring_, Moriarty?"

A small spurting noise drew Sherlock's attention towards the opposite wall. The holes which he had disregarded earlier were the cause of the strange noise. Sherlock approached the wall and bent down to peer inside one.

Right at that moment, a small stream of boiling hot liquid spurted out from inside.

Swearing, Sherlock backed away. "What in bloody hell was that?" he said, wiping at his eye vehemently. A voice, seemingly from nowhere, filled the room.

"I think you'd enjoy my game a bit more if there was more of a risk, Sherlock," said Moriarty. "I know I would."

Sherlock looked towards the ground, which was quickly being covered by the liquid. Sherlock couldn't tell what it was due to the lack of light. He dipped his hand lightly into it and held it up to his face for closer inspection.

He didn't want to be in it for too long, because, knowing Moriarty, it would probably be poisonous. However, with it an inch from his eyes, Sherlock knew what it was. Drawing it to his tongue, he recoiled the instant it touched him.

"This is…" Sherlock didn't want to say it, but Moriarty probed him on with a "yes?" Sherlock stared at the camera. "Blood," he said finally. "You're drowning me in blood."

Moriarty giggled. "Fun, isn't it?" he asked. "Have fun getting out of this one!" and everything went silent. Sherlock went for the door, but it was still locked very securely. He pounded on each of the walls, but none of them were hollow.

It was at this point Sherlock realised that he still held the note from Molly's bed. Unfolding it, he read

_You shouldn't have taken your eyes off of me, eh, Sherlock? You should never take your eyes off of me._

Spinning around, Sherlock's eyes landed on the camera. A little red light flashed, showing that it was recording. Sherlock watched it for a moment, but his attention was stolen by the blood, now up to his ankles.

Sherlock managed to keep his eyes on the camera long enough to get a distinct pattern. _One flash, then two, then one flash, then three, then two._

Sherlock stepped over and smartly knocked on the door once, then twice, then once, then three times, then twice.

The door swung open, and gallons of more blood poured into the room. Sherlock waded through the now knee-deep blood and stepped into the next room.

lt was much smaller, and it had another door in it. It also had a window, but, upon closer inspection, this window was sound-proof. Sherlock shot at it, but the bullet rebounded and went through a wall.

Steam quickly emitted from the hole, and Sherlock found himself holding his breath. Laughter came from the speaker. "It isn't poisonous, Junior," Irene's voice told him. Sherlock started breathing again, but still cautiously.

He knelt down to the hole and peered out. "That's outside," he said, staring through the hole. There was no response.

Sherlock closed his eyes and went into his Mind Palace. The second he was in it's halls, a door popped up by him. Cautiously, he turned the handle.

It was a lovely room, bright yellow. There were lots of windows around, and… a dead body. Sherlock shied away from it and turned around. There was also a bed. Sherlock couldn't place the room. What was it?

"I haven't seen you here in a _long _time," said a sullen voice behind him. Spinning around, Sherlock came face to face with Molly Hooper.

"Molly!" he said, relieved. "You need to help me! I'm trapped in room and-" "I know exactly where you are, Sherlock," said Molly. "I don't know if you do, but your subconscious has definitely realised it."

Sherlock stared at her. "Instead, let's talk about why you're here," said Molly. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You know why I'm here," he said. Molly punched him in the shoulder. "I mean, why you're in this room of all rooms, or in your Mind Palace at all when you could be drowning in blood in the real world?"

Sherlock stayed quiet. Molly shrugged. "Alright, be like that. Instead we could talk about how you've decorated my room." Sherlock glanced around.

Molly continued speaking. "Bright yellow. Understandable. It's what I wore to the wedding, isn't it? The dead body. I might get that. After all, I do work in a mortuary. But have you seen the face?" She went to the corpse and propped it up. Sherlock took a step back.

"It's…" he said. "You," finished Molly. "Yes. And, of course, we mustn't forget the bed." She went over and sat on it. Sherlock gazed at her for a moment. "You need to help me," he said. Molly smirked at him. "Oh dear. I think you've forgotten, I'm not the real Molly Hooper. The _real_ Molly Hooper is lying in a hospital bed. You'll find her room somewhere in the Bart's section of the Palace."

"So you're not going to help me?" asked Sherlock. Mind Palace Molly shook her head. "Look around you when you're out there," she said. "And really take notice."

Sherlock's eyes opened. The blood was now up to his waist. Sherlock looked around anxiously. Bullet-proof window. There was no flashing red light in here. Sherlock went to the door and tried it. Locked. There was nothing else.

He took his gun and swung it around in his hand. He needed air to live. He could shoot the wall some more, and more air would come in.

Sherlock paused for a moment. He could shoot the wall. And knock it down. And escape.

Without hesitation, Sherlock turned to the wall and began shooting around the edges. It wasn't too hard to knock it down. He stepped out and looked down at his blood-stained clothing.

Much of the blood had poured out with him, but out in the open it couldn't drown him. Sherlock took a step and then stopped.

A cliff. There was a cliff. He turned and went the other way, but there was another one. Looking around him, Sherlock grinned. "Brilliant," he muttered. "Give Moriarty a round of applause for this one." He turned again, looking over the edges of a high, steep mountain.


	40. Chapter Forty

Molly had no idea what was happening. She had woken up an hour or so ago, completely by herself. Her head ached and she couldn't move. She couldn't even speak. The last thing she remembered was kissing Matthew goodbye before going to work.

A nurse came in to check on her. Molly desperately wanted to ask him what was going on, but she found that she couldn't even make a noise. The nurse could tell that she was struggling, though, so he went to find a doctor.

About fifteen minutes later, the doctor came in. "Hello, Mrs. Holmes," she said cheerily. "I'm Doctor Radford. Don't try to speak, please. We've tried to contact Mr. Holmes, but he was inaccessible. We found your files from your last several visits and have called," Doctor Radford checked her papers. "John Watson. He says, and I quote, 'Mary is on her way now.' "

The doctor checked Molly's statistics. "The papers show that your surgery went quite alright. The bullet was removed. You should have recovered most of your senses by tomorrow evening at latest, and you will be discharged next weekend." Molly watched her with wide eyes.

The doctor checked her medicine and left without another word. A few minutes later, Mary rushed in. "Molly!" she cried. "Molly! My… Molly! Where's Sherlock? Are you alright? Oh, my… Molly!" She frantically hovered above Molly.

After she had calmed down a bit, she explained what she knew. "Everything was alright. I came over to watch Matthew while you were at work and Sherlock was getting Brooklyn. You said goodbye. Two hours later I get a call from Sherlock that Brooklyn would be dropped off and he was taking you to the hospital! I don't even know what happened!"

Lestrade had come in during the last part of her speech. "I can contribute some," he said. "Sherlock, some officers and I all went to that old warehouse downtown to pick up Brooklyn. We found Brooklyn and took her out, and Sherlock went back to get her doll." Here he paused. "A few minutes later we heard gunshots, and I ran in. You were lying on the ground, bleeding. Your head was in Sherlock's lap. He held your head up and just… talked to you for a minute."

Molly still couldn't say words, but she signified that she had heard him. "Where in bloody hell is Sherlock?" asked Mary, watching her friend struggle. She whipped out her phone and texted him.

_Sherlock! We're all here with Molly, who seems to be recovering from being shot in the head! She doesn't remember too much, obviously you're the only one who has the full story. I left John watching three small children to come find out what happened. You'd better be here soon!_

Within seconds her phone chimed.

_On my way. It's a bit harder than it seems, rock climbing. -SH_

_YOU WENT ROCK CLIMBING. WHILE MOLLY IS IN THE HOSPITAL. HAVING BEEN SHOT IN THE HEAD. SHERLOCK HOLMES IF YOU AREN'T HERE IN TWO MINUTES YOU'LL BE THE ONE IN THE HOSPITAL._

_I look forward to being hospitalised; hopefully it will be much more exciting than escaping from my Molly's would-be murderers who kidnapped me. -SH_

_I F******* HATE YOU. GET HERE. NOW._

_Somebody's in a bad mood. -SH_

_DAMN YOU. WHY ARE YOU NOT HERE?_

There wasn't a response to her last text, but within half an hour Sherlock was there. His clothes were blood-soaked. Ignoring everybody else, he went and sat right next to Molly.

"Sherlock! Is that blood?" demanded Mary. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Stop stressing out and tell him already," he said. Mary went slack. "What?" she asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "John," he said. "Tell John that you're pregnant and stop worrying about it."

Mary blushed crimson. "I'm not pregnant!" she declared. Sherlock eyed her. "Yes, you are," he said. Mary glared at him. "How would you know?" she asked. Sherlock just looked at her. Mary sighed in submission. "Fine," she said, and stormed out. Lestrade followed her.

Sherlock turned to Molly. "Well, I bet you're having a good day," he said to her. He remained by her side for the following twenty-four hours, leaving only twice to go to the loo and change his clothes.

She regained her speech by the next day at noon, and was asking questions of Sherlock faster than he could answer. When he had finally given her all the answers she needed, they sat quietly together for a bit.

Suddenly, however, Molly gasped and blushed crimson. "What is it?" asked Sherlock sharply. Molly stared at him. She seemed to be unable to speak. "Well?" asked Sherlock, concern growing on his face. Molly took a deep breath of air and hit him on the arm. Hard. "What was that for?" he asked with a yelp. Molly grinned brightly and squealed a little bit. "Sherlock bloody Holmes," she said when she had regained her voice. "Yes!"


	41. Chapter Forty-One

Molly's remaining week in the hospital flew by quickly. The doctors were amazed at her speedy recovery. Sherlock wasn't surprised at all, and acted offended whenever the doctors approached him about the subject.

"My Molly has always been remarkably quick when it comes to healing," he told one doctor. "I don't see why it should be any different now." John and Mary thought this was hilarious. They had also verified Mary's second pregnancy.

"I personally hope it's a little girl," Mary said to Molly one day when she was visiting. "I think John hopes so, too." Molly smiled. "That's great, Mary," she said. "I always thought that I'd like another baby, but you know what that would require." Mary laughed.

"Don't I," she said with a grin. "Sherlock and you…" Molly blushed. "That isn't really the issue at this point," she said. Mary gasped. "Wait. WHAT?" she demanded. Molly cringed slightly.

"I _was _going to tell you," she said. "But, you know, I was in the hospital and all of that happened." "So you and Sherlock are dating now?" asked Mary, scooting closer to Molly. "More than dating," a new voice joined the mix.

Molly brightly smiled as Sherlock came into the room. He dropped into a chair on the other side of her bed. Mary looked between them. Molly held up her left hand and wiggled her ring finger.

Shortly after Molly's hospitalisation, Sherlock had disappeared for an hour or so. When he returned, without a word, he slipped a beautiful ring on her finger. It was a group of thin silver bands, intertwined to meet at the top with a cluster of diamonds. Molly had only been wearing it for a couple of days, but it already felt like it was a part of her.

Mary was a little more than surprised. "How could something like this happen without notifying me?" she demanded of Molly. "It was all kind of a blur," Molly replied softly. "I got kidnapped, drugged, shot, engaged, hospitalised, and healed. In that order."

Mary sighed. "I suppose I should have expected something like that to happen." Molly nodded, but her blush hadn't faded. "What else did you do?" Mary asked. Molly looked up at the ceiling, not meeting Mary's eyes.

"We told the kids," she said vaguely. Mary smiled slightly. "And now they'll each get a new mum or dad," she said. Molly shook her head. "No, we told them… about all of it," she replied.

Mary threw her hands into the air hopelessly. "I suppose that's why they won't leave each other's sides," she said. Molly grinned. "I suppose so," she said.

Mary leaned forward and hugged her. "I'm so glad this is how it worked out," she said. "Two good friends, both married, both with two children, identical lives." Molly nodded, not meeting Mary's eyes. "Yes," she agreed. "Identical lives."

Mary turned to leave. As she walked out the door, a young woman walked in. Mary nodded hello to her and left the building.

The next few months rushed by. Molly and Mary were swamped with wedding arrangements, and Sherlock wasn't very helpful. The women finally assigned him childcare, which he handled nicely.

Brooklyn and Matthew were thrilled about the upcoming wedding. Brooklyn was to be the flower girl. She wore a beautiful, lemon-yellow dress that frilled out at the waist, making Brooklyn feel like "a prin-a princt-a queen." Her beautiful long hair had lightened considerably, and it was now a lovely shade of brown. Her eyes, blue as ever, shone against the fair tones of her skin.

Matthew wore a little suit with a yellow tie. His mother hadn't been sure about letting him be the ring-bearer, but Sherlock stood up for him. "Matthew will be brilliant," he told Molly.

The twins were inseparable. They followed around their parents, holding hands and babbling softly to each other.

Nobody was as thrilled about the whole thing as the bride and groom. Molly literally _glowed_, and Sherlock was as excited as Sherlock could be.

They all prepared together, this big happy family, until it finally came. The day of the wedding.


	42. Chapter Forty-Two

Molly stared into the mirror nervously. She wore a classic long white dress. It was sleeveless, and it laced up the back. The skirt was full and fluffy. The lace-work was simple but beautiful. Her hair was pinned back into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. She wore a thin, floating veil that reached the ground, and she had a lovely crown of flowers around her head.

"Really, we couldn't have picked a better day for an outdoor wedding," squealed Mary as she skipped through the door. She stopped in her tracks when she saw Molly. "You look _gorgeous_!" she exclaimed. Molly smiled a little faintly. "I'm so nervous," she said to Mary.

Mary put her hands on her waist. "About what?" she asked. Molly shrugged. "That I'm going to get down that aisle and Sherlock is going to see me and think, "What the bloody hell am I doing here? This is a mistake," and he'll just walk out.

Mary sighed. "Sherlock is crazy," she said to her best friend. "But not that crazy. Not crazy enough to walk out on his own wedding like that." Molly did not look convinced. Mary changed the subject.

"I can't believe how cheap that dress was! When you told me about it, I thought, 'oh, a hundred dollars, it's going to be really crappy,' but look at it! It's gorgeous!" Molly blushed a little. "I like your dress, too," she said.

Mary wore a sleeveless purple evening gown. It hugged her body, emphasising her pregnant belly. Mary jokingly said to Molly, "I promise I won't go into labor directly after your wedding. Or run away tomorrow, leaving you to raise my newborn child."

Molly giggled a little. "So long since that night," she said. Mary shook her head. "I don't know how you did it," she said. "You had a newborn baby, an adorable one at that, and you held her maybe twice before leaving her for what might have been the last time."

Molly grew still. "It wasn't easy…" she admitted. "And… I've done it before." Mary's head jerked up. "What?" she asked. Molly blushed. "I… got pregnant… in high school," she said. "I was sixteen." Mary gaped. "You mean to tell me," she said. "That you have a…" Mary did some quick math in her head. "Twenty year old child?" Molly nodded.

Mary looked around in shock. "Well, who's the father?" she asked, turning back to Molly, who blushed. "I don't exactly know," she said, looking at the ground. "You don't know who the father was!" exclaimed Mary. Molly blushed but stood her ground. "It's not like that!" she said to Mary. "I was gang-raped."

Mary fell silent immediately. "I'm sorry," she said after a minute. Molly looked at the ground. "It's not your fault," she said. Both of the women sat in silence. A minute later Mary said to Molly, "Does Sherlock know?" "I haven't told him," said Molly. "Not that that means anything. I'm almost _100% _certain that he doesn't, though. The only reason I didn't tell him was because I don't want him to brutally murder whoever did it." Mary nodded.

"Well, let's focus on making you pretty," she said, smiling to lighten the mood.

An hour later Molly stood inside the little clapboard church. They would be having the wedding outside, and she would have to go out in a minute or two. She watched as people started pouring in and taking their seats.

"It's a lot of people, isn't it?" she said to herself. She took a deep breath. "Sherlock loves you and will not embarrass you in front of all of these people. Sherlock loves you and will not cancel the wedding. Sherlock loves you and-" "-And will continue to love you, even when you're in the insane asylum for talking to yourself," sounded a voice from right behind her.

Molly spun around, coming face-to-face with her cousin. "Jeremy!" she exclaimed, and she gave him a hug. "You look great, cuz," he said, looking her up and down. They heard music starting to play and Jeremy said hurriedly, "I'd better go and grab my seat." Molly watched him leave and continued taking deep breaths.

Mary came in to get her a moment later. "This is more stressful than having a baby," Molly told her. "Well, yeah, 'cause the baby is Sherlock," said Mary. Molly weakly smiled as Mary led her to the door.

A moment later beautiful music was swelling up outside. All of the people rose from their chairs and looked expectantly to the doors of the church. Molly took a deep breath and smoothed her dress. Breathing deeply, she opened the door and led herself out.

Little Brooklyn and Matthew had done their jobs well, and now they were standing adorably next to Sherlock. Sherlock. Molly took a deep breath and allowed the smile to cover her face.

When she reached Sherlock, he took her hand and together they turned to face the preacher. Molly was so nervous, she could hardly pay attention. When it came time to say their vows, Sherlock turned to Molly expectantly.

Molly had very carefully prepared vows beforehand, but now she couldn't remember a word of them. She thought for a moment but not a word came to mind. Molly looked around, hoping to find inspiration, but all that caught her attention was the fat wooden bracelet around her wrist, covering her scar. Sherlock had returned it to her after she was released from the hospital all those years ago.

Taking a deep breath, Molly slipped it off of her wrist and handed it to Sherlock. He looked at it, confused, and then looked back to her as she started speaking. "Never again," she said, smiling at the man standing in front of her. "Never again will I be alone. Not when I'm sad, or when I'm afraid, or when I'm angry. Never again will I have to make my best and only friend a blade. Never again will I cry at night because I'm alone. Now I have you. Genius, consulting detective, father, and now husband."

Sherlock smiled at her and put the bracelet in his pocket. It was his turn now. "I'm not always the best at conveying my emotions," he said, and most of the audience laughed. "I'm not even the best at recognising their existence. Even though it doesn't always show, I do love you." It was short and sweet and Molly found herself blinking back tears.

They exchanged rings and sooner or later found themselves at the reception. Molly and Sherlock accepted many congratulations and an 'I told you so,' from Mycroft. They were about to cut the cake when someone new approached them; someone who hadn't been invited to the wedding.

Irene Adler stood in front of the newlyweds, wearing a little bloodred dress. Her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head, and her makeup was painstakingly perfect. She hugged Sherlock and gave him a kiss on the cheek. Stepping back, she gave him a charming smile and said, "Congratulations." Turning to look at Molly, she added, "Mum."


	43. Author's Note

**This whole chapter is an author's note, so if you don't want to read it, then don't.**

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hello, my lovely readers. I just want to apologise. I've been rather off in my writing. I don't know if you can sense it or not, but it's true- -I haven't been writing as well as I could be these last few chapters. I think I know why._

_I was going to kill Molly. When she was shot in the head. I intended for it to kill her. Dead. Game over. End of the story. Not this story, but her story. It was supposed to kill her. But when I was writing the next chapter, sentiment got the better of me. I should've listened to Sherlock, but no, I had to keep Molly alive. For Sherlolly. For Brooklyn. For Matthew. So I didn't kill her. And I think it screwed me up. I've been having a mental battle with myself these last few days, making it harder to update, so I've come to a decision: I will no longer let my heart rule my head. Or my writing. No, this does not mean that I will now kill Molly. All it means is that if I find it necessary to do something that would make me cry as a reader, I will actually do it now. I'm sorry in advance. If you have issues with this, please let me know. If you would like spoilers or anything, you can PM me. I might not give them to you, but I might. Either way, I should be back on track after this, updating more often, more heartbreakers, more cliffhangers, and, overall, better writing. Thank you!_


	44. Chapter Forty-Three

Molly stood, her mouth opening and closing without words. Sherlock, however, found them. "Mum?" he asked, looking the refined woman in front of him up and down. Irene smiled at him playfully. "Didn't she tell you?" she asked, throwing a half-hearted glare in Molly's direction. Sherlock tensed visibly. "Tell me what, exactly?" he asked tersely.

Irene smiled again. "Oh, you're smarter than that, Sherlock." Sherlock stood his ground. "Tell me _what_?" he pressed. At this moment Brooklyn came running up and clambered into Sherlock's arms. "I spilled," she said, pointing to a red spot on the hem of her dress. Sherlock examined it. "So you did," he said, and he passed Brooklyn to Molly. He then returned his attention to Irene. "Tell me what?" he asked again.

Instead of answering, Irene looked fondly at Brooklyn. "So sweet," she said, much to Sherlock's annoyance. "I've always wanted a little sister." Molly, who had been silent to this point, held Brooklyn to herself. "Leave, Irene," she said firmly. Irene feigned surprise. "Oh, don't be like that, dear," she said. "It's almost like you don't _want _your daughter to be in your wedding. Honestly, I'm a bit offended I didn't get an invitation."

Sherlock intervened. "Leave," he said. Irene looked at him with real surprise on his face. "What, Sherlock? Or should I call you 'dad'? Don't you want to know the whole story of how young Miss Hooper here ended up with _me _as a child? Or did you already know that by marrying her you'd become my step-father?"

Sherlock stood tall. "That's Mrs. Holmes to you," he said, "and I believe that she asked you to leave." He squeezed Molly's hand, and she squeezed back faintly. Irene turned without a word and disappeared into the guests. Matthew ran over at this point, not to be excluded from his newly completed family. "Hi, Daddy," he said, tugging on Sherlock's pant leg. Sherlock picked him up.

"Smile," said a photographer standing nearby, and the Holmes got their first picture as a family. Afterwards, the children ran off and Molly whispered to Sherlock, "I'm sorry about Irene." "We'll talk about it later," said Sherlock, and with a smile to his guests, he too disappeared, leaving Molly feeling slightly sick to her stomach.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Guys. Guys. Guys. I am more sorry than I have ever been before. More sorry than when Molly attempted suicide. More sorry than when Sherlock was left raising M. Brooklyn alone. More sorry than when I shot Molly in the head and had Sherlock propose when she was unconscious. I'm probably the most sorry I've been in my entire life. I am. I am so sorry. I hope to update with two more chapters tonight, and a few tomorrow as well, as an apology. I have been deathly ill, and I haven't been writing as much. Luckily, however, this is the last week of school for me, so I should be able to write more. Yay! Unless you hate this, of course, in which case less yay._

_Either way, once again, I'm so sorry! XOXO, __Rusty Tater Tot_


	45. Chapter Forty-Four

Molly stood in the middle of the crowd. She felt the tears rising inside of her. "No," she said to herself. "Not here." She looked around. "This is supposed to be the best day of my life. Sherlock should be here, he should be holding her hand. Matthew and Brooklyn could be here. Molly looked around, towards the entry. Along the wall there was a display of photographs that had been taken in the months leading up to the wedding. Molly smiled at her favorite; located at a small playground near Baker Street, herself, Sherlock, Matthew and Brooklyn all played on equipment. Sherlock sat on the slide, smiling towards the camera. Matthew clung to Sherlock's shirt, looking more like a miniature Sherlock than anyone, even Sherlock, had a right to. Brooklyn sat on a swing, and Molly stood behind her and pushed her.

Molly smiled at the picture once more. "I wish I could just live in this moment," she said, examining it. "This is how it's supposed to be. This is how I'm supposed to feel. All the time." Molly couldn't blink back the tears now. She let them fall softly, landing on the picture. She knew she had to find Sherlock.

Molly searched the entire building, twice, before realising that Sherlock wasn't there. Mycroft and Anthea had taken Matthew and Brooklyn to their home to give herself and Sherlock 'some space for awhile.' She finally went outside to see if he was there.

She finally found him, but she almost wished she hadn't. He was in the garden. Not by himself. He was with Irene. And, as Molly saw him from behind the rose trellis, she also saw her own daughter lean forward and kiss her husband. Irene kissed Sherlock.


	46. Chapter Forty-Five

Molly was beginning to make people nervous. She had been standing at the bridge looking down over the water for over an hour now. She hadn't said a word to anyone. She just stood there. That wasn't what was scary, though; what was scary was the fact that she was still in her bridal gown.

It had started raining. Nothing heavy, but drizzling. Enough that Molly was very damp. Her veil clung to her frozen cheeks, and every tear that fell from her eyes burned into her flesh. _How could he do this to me? _she asked herself. _To all of us?_

_Our wedding day. 'The start of a new chapter,' he said. Something new. The Holmes' family, together at last, together forever. Sherlock and Molly, Matthew and Brooklyn. Inseparable. And everything was going to be different. _Molly had to choke back a sob. She knew that even if she went back now, even if Sherlock somehow managed to clear everything up, nothing would be as it was before. Before he had kissed her daughter at his wedding.

Molly smiled bitterly, and then opened her mouth to breathe. She had been having so much trouble swallowing recently, and she found breathing through her mouth helped considerably. It calmed her down, as well. Molly looked at her reflection in the water below.

In the months leading to the wedding, Molly had lost a good amount of weight. She attributed it to the nerves of finally, after having attempted suicide, left a child behind for the second time, been shot in the head, been in love with a high-functioning prick for eleven years, getting engaged to him. However, as she looked at the wavering form in the water below, she couldn't help but wonder. Could it have been the knowledge that something like this would happen that made her so frail?

Molly shook her head. No, that couldn't be it. She loved Sherlock, no matter what, and even knowing that he had kissed Irene didn't change that. _But at your wedding?_ asked the voice in her head, and she knew there was no avoiding it: by kissing her daughter at their wedding, Sherlock had injured Molly with something that couldn't be healed by time.

"Are you alright, Miss?" asked a voice at her shoulder. Molly spun around to find a police officer behind her. "Yes, I'm fine," she said, and covered her mouth as she released a head-splitting yawn. The police officer eyed her, standing in her soaked wedding gown. "Do you have somewhere to go?" he asked in a concerned tone. Molly started to nod, but stopped. Did she? Could she go back to Baker Street after what she had seen?

Luckily, Molly was spared having to answer. A glimmer of recognition shone in the officer's eyes. "Are you..." he checked his notepad. "Molly Holmes?" Molly paused for a moment. Was she? She knew what the answer was. "Yes," she said to the man. He nodded, smiling. "Mrs. Holmes, if you'll please come with me," he said. "Your husband is looking for you."

On the ride to what she presumed was the police station, Molly started becoming aware of how uncomfortable she was. Not only was she in a tight, itchy, soaking dress in the back of a smelly police car, she was starting to feel sore again. Molly had developed a constant ache that seemed to dwell in her very bones. Today she had taken some tylenol to help eradicate it, but with the stress of the afternoon she figured the medication must be wearing off.

"Would you like a cough drop, Mrs. Holmes?" asked the officer as she started yet another coughing fit, the third since she had entered the car. "That's why you don't stand in the rain," he continued as Molly coughed into her elbow. "You can catch cold and, eventually, die." Molly shook her head with a smile. "Not a cold," she said. "I've got an almost constant cough. I was a smoker a while back." The rest of the ride was silent.

When the car stopped, rather than being outside of a police station, Molly found herself at 221B Baker Street. "Thank you," she said to the officer as she stepped out of the car. The officer got out with her. "I'm supposed to walk you in," he said in response to her questioning glance. Rolling her eyes, Molly entered the building.

Mrs. Hudson was the first to see her. "Molly!" she exclaimed, running towards the young woman anxiously. "I'm fine, Martha," said Molly, pulling herself out of the woman's grasp. "You've been gone for four hours!" continued Mrs. Hudson. Molly smiled comfortingly at her and continued up the stairs.

Once she reached her own flat, the officer turned and left her at the door. Molly looked at it and entered. At first glance, it was empty. Everything was still. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Then she heard the bedroom door open. Turning expectantly, Molly came face to face with... Irene Adler.

"Ah, there you are, dear," said the other woman. "You really shouldn't run off like that, especially not after your own wedding. People will talk. Say you got cold feet." When Molly didn't reply, Irene looked her up and down. "Of course, out in the rain dressed like that, I bet you did get cold feet."

At this moment the bedroom door opened again. This time it really was Sherlock. "Molly!" he said, and in his voice Molly detected worry, anger, relief and... curiosity. "Where have you been?" he demanded. Molly looked from him to Irene and back to him. She opened and closed her mouth, but no sound came out.

Everything went black, and Molly Holmes hit the floor.

**_Author's Note:_**

_Hello, my dearest readers! Thank you for staying with me so far! I hope to have the next chapter up tonight. I can hardly believe that this is actually the forty-fifth chapter! Please review and let me know what you think! Big Squishy Cuddles,_

_~Rusty Tater Tot_


	47. Chapter Forty-Six

"Cancer?" asked Sherlock, his voice hollow. Doctor Spencer nodded. "A brain tumour. It's probably been there her whole life, growing bigger each day. It's spread, too. It's everywhere. It's inside her bones." Molly hadn't spoken a word except to answer the questions the doctor asked her. She hadn't spoken as she was rushed to the hospital, she hadn't spoken as they examined her, and she wasn't speaking now. Sherlock was concerned.

She was still in her wedding dress, sitting on the chair in the hospital room. She became aware of eyes on her. Looking up, she saw both Sherlock and the doctor watching her silently. Molly suddenly felt very vulnerable.

"What's going to happen to her?" asked Sherlock, not moving his eyes. Doctor Spencer shrugged helplessly. "After the last operation it was noted, but we all considered it to be a mass that was a direct result of the bullet lodging itself in her brain," he said. "If we reopened now, it would also reopen the bullet wound and -" "cause unstoppable internal bleeding," Sherlock finished.

"Also," said the doctor, "the tumour is made up of several smaller tumours, all of which are seriously entangled with her blood vessels. And her other health issues would make it more difficult to operate." Sherlock exhaled loudly.

"What does that mean?" asked Molly. Her voice was hoarse. "It's inoperable, I get that," she continued, "but does that mean that I'm going to…" Molly suddenly found that she couldn't speak.

"Die?" asked Doctor Spencer. "Oh, no. Not at all. The first and most obvious solution is to kill out the tumour with radiation." Sherlock looked as though he was considering this, but Molly put her foot down. "No," she said. "Too dangerous."

The doctor looked at his charts. "Well… chemotherapy is an option, as well," he said. "Only works in 20% of cancer patients," Sherlock responded. Doctor Spencer was astounded. "How did you - that information is not open to the public, Mr. Holmes." "I'm not the public!" Sherlock loudly exclaimed.

Then he continued. "As much of a risk as it might be, I think our best bet is radiation," he said to Molly. The doctor nodded. "I agree -" he began to say, but Sherlock cut him off. "I don't know how you got your degree in medicine," he said, "but I must say, you are certainly a nincompoop when it comes to matters such as these. You must lose over half of your patients, even the ones with a common cold!"

Molly started to interrupt, but decided against it. If admitted, she was enjoying Sherlock's speech. Sherlock continued speaking. "Someone you knew died of cancer about thirty years ago. Not a family member, because if it was you would stay far away from the doctor business. Not everything is cliche. And - yes, Molly?" "It could have been a family member," said Molly timidly. "Just not a valued one."

Sherlock nodded. "So you lost someone you knew to cancer, and rather than being traumatised by it, you were fascinated, so you joined the medical career as soon as you graduated college, which was about twenty years ago - you haven't kept your youth as well as you thought, Doctor Spencer."

The doctor stared at Sherlock for a moment or two before rising and, without another word, left the room. Sherlock watched him leave. "Let's go, Molly."

In the cab back to Baker Street, Sherlock tried and failed to talk to Molly. Finally, in a moment of exasperation, he demanded to know why she wasn't speaking to him. "You kissed my daughter, Sherlock!" Molly exclaimed, turning to face him. "At our wedding!"

Sherlock paused for a moment, looking shocked. Then he said, "Well, no, technically _she _kissed _me._" "And you kissed her back!" said Molly. Sherlock looked offended. "Don't be ridiculous," he told his wife. "I kissed her mouth." Molly huffed loudly and turned away from him.

When he spoke again, Sherlock's voice was a little softer. "It isn't what you think," he said, taking her hand. "I swear." Molly didn't look at him, but she didn't pull her hand away from his, either. Sherlock's next words made her face him. "Do you trust me?" he asked, and his voice was so quiet she almost couldn't hear him.

Molly turned back to Sherlock and looked at him for a moment. Then she nodded curtly and changed the subject. "So. Cancer," she said, and Sherlock looked, once again, almost afraid.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hey, guys! Honestly, I was surprised after the last few chapters that you guys weren't PMing me or reviewing saying "MOLLY HAS CANCER!" I mean, you guys are geniuses, almost like little Sherlocks, and you've caught on to all of my mini-plots so far. I suppose cancer isn't really a mini-plot, though… It can be easier to miss when it's staring you in the face!_

_Oh, and hello to all of my new readers! Review review review!_

_Lots of love, Rusty Tater Tot_


	48. Chapters Forty-Seven and Forty-Eight

_**Author's Note:**_

_Just a quick Author's Note at the beginning (for once) - this chapter will have two chapters in it, forty-seven and forty-eight, mainly just because right now according to the website we're on the forty-eighth chapter but this is only the forty-seventh. My OCD can't handle it. So yes, I'll be writing two-in-one tonight. You can thank my mental condition for that. Love 'ya!_

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

"I fixed comatose people, I can fix cancer patients, too!" declared Sherlock loudly. Molly sighed in exasperation. It had been a week since their wedding, and Sherlock hadn't spoken to anyone outside of their family in that time. Much of his time was spent studying cancer and brain tumours.

"Sherlock, people have spent centuries trying to solve this. It isn't solved in a week," Molly told him patiently. Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Those idiots didn't have me," he told his wife. Molly turned from him so he wouldn't see her smile. She then went to the kitchen where Brooklyn and Matthew were eating their lunches.

"Mumma!" Matthew exclaimed when he saw her. "Can we go to the pawk today?" Molly ruffled his hair fondly. "Sure we can," she told her son. She looked at Brooklyn. "Isn't that a good idea, Brooklyn?" Brooklyn nodded enthusiastically and swallowed the bite of sandwich in her mouth. "Yay park!" she said happily. Molly gave her a little hug and went back into the living room. She sat next to Sherlock on the sofa.

"Care to go to the park with us today?" she asked once he looked up at her. Sherlock looked longingly at his work, but Molly knew that he would go with them. Sherlock really was making an attempt to be a good father. "I suppose so," said Sherlock, and he slowly closed his laptop and put it on the coffee table.

"Daddy!" shouted Brooklyn as she ran into the living room. She bounded into her father's lap. "We're going to the park!" Sherlock smiled at her. "I know, Brooklyn," he said. "I'm going to go with you." Brooklyn's cheer could only have been matched by Matthew's.

Recently, Matthew had really taken to his father. He followed him around. He walked like him, talked like him, he even played like him. Molly had walked into the children's room to find him deducing Brooklyn. Molly watched from the corner as Matthew pulled out a toy gun and held it to Brooklyn's head, demanding to know "where she put the money." Luckily, Brooklyn loved this kind of game.

It annoyed Molly to no end that both of her children were so obviously little Sherlocks. Brooklyn was more Molly-like, but there was still no doubt that she was Sherlock's daughter. Pale as ever, her hair had lightened considerably and was now precisely the shade of Molly's. If it weren't for the beautifully crazy curls, her hair would reach halfway down her back. Her eyes were still icy blue and piercing, and her lips were still thin and curled into a little smirk. She was funny and genius and annoying and, as Molly considered to be lucky, quite tactful.

Matthew was just… Sherlock. He was exactly how Molly would picture a four-year old Sherlock. He refused to listen to 'stupid stuff' like how birds migrated and how photosynthesis worked - all he cared about was being right, and if that took deducing the world, he would do it.

"Come on, Daddy, come on!" begged Brooklyn as Sherlock rose from the sofa and put on his coat. Molly snickered as he pulled up the collar mysteriously around his cheekbones. "I look good," he said in response to his wife's laughter. He then lifted Brooklyn and waited as Molly lifted Matthew. Then they left the flat, left the building, left Baker Street, and headed down to the park as one big happy family.

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

Despite all the happy times they had at the park, the Holmes family was far from being happy. Molly suffered daily from her illness, and despite the radiation treatment helping her cancer, it didn't help her everyday health. Molly refused to let this get her down too often, but there were still times Sherlock would walk into his flat and find Molly sitting on the sofa with her head in her hands.

For the most part, Molly acted very happy. Mary Watson had given birth to her baby, a sweet little girl with an adorable smile and big brown eyes. "Ayana Mariasha Watson," John told Sherlock as he, Molly, Matthew and Brooklyn headed towards Mary's hospital room.

"Rather poetic, don't you think?" Sherlock asked his best friend. John laughed. "Mary had her heart set on it," he replied. "Because it meant, and I quote, 'Little one with a big heart.' " This stopped Sherlock in his tracks. When Molly and John turned, he was muttering to himself. "I don't know what Brooklyn and Matthew's names mean," he said pitifully. Molly smiled at him.

"Matthew Scott means gift of God," she told her husband. Sherlock smiled down at her son. "And what does Mary Brooklyn mean?" he asked. Molly's smile fell slightly. "Broken land," she said simply. Sherlock looked at her but said nothing. A moment later they were all walking again.

"Anyway," said Sherlock to John. "Ayana Mariasha doesn't mean what you think it means." "How can you know that?" asked John, exasperated. "It's common knowledge," responded Sherlock. John gaped at him. "How can you not know the meaning of your own child's name and still know mine?" he asked. Sherlock smirked at him. Molly reentered the conversation here.

"He heard you talking about it and researched it," she told John. Now it was John's turn to smirk at Sherlock. "What does it mean, if not Little one with big heart?" he said. "It means 'Beautiful flower of sorrow' and 'Perfect one with a bitter smile,' " Sherlock told him. "That's depressing," muttered Molly.

The next moment all depression and names were forgotten, for there on a little chair in the corner sat Mary, and in her arms was a little baby one could only assume was Ayana Mariasha.

John, Sherlock and Matthew stood in the back watching as all of the women cooed over little Ayana. Despite all of the smiles and giggles, Sherlock noted something incredibly wistful in Molly's eyes as she leaned over and kissed the baby on the head.

And that's when Sherlock knew: Molly Holmes was really very sick.


	49. Chapter Forty-Nine

_I saw Sherlock at the morgue yesterday. He looks fantastic. He was always so pale, even when we were in college. Now I can't help but wonder if it had anything to do with the drugs. I'm still battling myself. Naturally, a very large part of me is thrilled that I saved Sherlock Holmes, turned him around, let him go. But that's just one part. All the rest of me argues that now he doesn't trust me, and I can never save him again. He'll need me, and I'll just be an echo, the voice in the wind. I know that isn't it, though. I know I'm really sad because I lost my best friend. Does it make me a horrible person? Yes, probably. Oh, if only he could be here now. If only it were anyone else. He'd know exactly what to say… But he's safe, and in the end, I know that this is all that will have mattered to me._

Molly sighed and shut her old diary. She'd found six or seven of them in boxes, and Sherlock had asked if he could read them. Rather than letting him deal with all of the pain he would find there, she instead opted to read them herself before giving them to him. Here she was, on the fifth, and every single one she wished he wouldn't read.

She wouldn't stop him if he tried, but she knew how he would be hurt if he ever felt even an inkling of how much he hurt her.

Molly was on her second week of radiotherapy. She was on hold at Bart's, preferring to stay at home with her family while she was sick. Luckily, everybody including Sherlock had high hopes that she would get better, and she trusted Sherlock with more than just her life. She trusted him with his own.

Molly smiled to herself. He had gone to pick Matthew and Brooklyn up from a playdate with Mikey, leaving Molly at Baker Street. Molly was fine with this. As much as she loved her family, she did get ever so exhausted by them. Sherlock especially.

And now…

Molly gulped. She didn't know how to feel about all that was happening. Cancer treatment, twin five-year olds, and Sherlock Holmes living all together did rack up quite a bill, and she didn't want to add anything to that, especially while she was so ill.

"But," Molly told herself. "It's too late now, and you're never going to do anything to change that." She knew it was true. She had been worried sick at first, but after some research, she found herself relaxing and actually enjoying the sensation.

She knew Sherlock would pick up on it soon enough. He was, after all, Sherlock bloody Holmes. How could he not? Molly knew that even if he did somehow miss it, she wouldn't be able to hold it in much longer. She had barely been able to the first time 'round…

Molly was so caught up in her own thoughts she didn't even hear the door downstairs slam. "Mumma!" she heard suddenly, and Molly jerked her head up. "Hi, Sweetheart," she said, kissing Matthew on the head. Brooklyn came skipping up behind him. "Mummy!" she cried as she lunged into Molly's arms. "Hey, Love," Molly replied, kissing Brooklyn as well.

"What, no kiss for me?" came a voice from behind her. _His_ voice. Molly turned to face Sherlock. "Hey, Baby," she said. He stepped closer to her and gave her a hug. "Reading again?" he asked, motioning towards her old diary. Molly nodded. Sherlock smirked. "And I can't read it?" he questioned. "Even though I'm sure I know what it says?" Molly smiled at him.

"You can read it," she said to her husband. Sherlock's eyes lit up. "Really?" he asked seriously. He looked into her eyes for a moment. "Is there something wrong?" he murmured, searching her face for clues. Molly diverted her eyes toward the floor. "No," she mumbled. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Really, Sherlock," insisted Molly.

It wasn't until that evening when the children were in bed that she finally spoke up. "Sherlock," she began. Sherlock looked at her over his book. Molly chickened out. "Reading Nancy Drew again?" she asked. Sherlock looked at his book, then slammed it shut and flipped it over his shoulder. "What would you suggest I read?" he asked.

Molly smiled at him. Suddenly she found her voice again. "Sherlock, I'm pregnant."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Wow, guys! We have seventeen followers, six favorites, and fifty-five reviews! I never imagined this when I started writing! Thank you so much for sticking with me this far!_

_to __DarkSummerBrightWinter92__: Wow, you read all the way up to chapter forty-eight in one afternoon! Despite how short my chapters are, that's still impressive._


	50. Chapter Fifty

**Chapter Fifty**

Both Molly and Sherlock were ecstatic. Once he got over the initial shock and worry, Sherlock went all out for his third child - the first one he would plan to be there for, he said.

He and Molly started planning everything out, bit by bit. "When will we find out if it's a boy?" Sherlock asked Molly. She laughed. "Sherlock, we're only in the third week," she told him. "It'll be another fifteen, at least." Sherlock sighed in disappointment.

"We could go over our list of names again," Molly suggested with a smile. Sherlock agreed vigorously.

"So for boys names, we have - in alphabetic order - Christopher, Gregory, Jacob, Luke, Matthew-" "Hold on, Sherlock," interrupted Molly. "We already have a Matthew." Sherlock sighed and crossed it off the list. "Stanley, which I will never agree to, William and Xavier. Xavier?" Molly grinned. "Mary suggested it," she said. Sherlock groaned. "Xavier is the name children get when their parents want something starting with 'X' and can't think of anything better. I think we should leave Mary out of this."

Molly crossed her arms. "Hey, now, Mister," she said. "Remember when I was pregnant with our twins, and you said to leave _you _out of it. If it weren't for Mary I probably would have died during my last pregnancy." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but Molly pressed on. "So listen closely, because I will only say this once: Mary was more of a parent to those children then you were up until I came back, and I never want to hear you diss her, her suggestions, or her help ever again. Got it?"

Sherlock nodded meekly. "Good," said Molly, and she turned back to her list. "Now, for girl names," she said. "Angelina, Bianca-" "No," said Sherlock. "No?" asked Molly. Sherlock shook his head. "It sounds like the girl who always ends up evil in my…" "In your Nancy Drew books?" Molly teased. Sherlock hung his head. "Continue," he said.

"Bianca, Destiny, Lexie, Roxy, Scarlett, and Zafirah." "Excuse me?" said Sherlock. "Did you say Zafirah?" Molly nodded with a smile. "I won't remember that," Sherlock complained. Molly laughed.

That evening, Sherlock shut his laptop and looked to the armchair where Molly sat. "Was it really this boring all through your pregnancy?" he questioned. Molly laughed. "No," she told him. "It gets much more interesting once you can actually feel the baby kicking and stuff. Not good, but interesting." Sherlock nodded. Then he asked, "How did you make it until then?"

"It was easy," replied Molly. "I fell asleep and slept until I was through the first trimester. Easy-peasy." Sherlock nodded again. Molly turned back to her book. Both of the Holmes' parents sat in the peace and quiet of nighttime London.

"Mumma?" came a little voice from behind them, shattering the silence. Matthew walked slowly into the room. Sherlock looked up from his computer, and Molly put down her book. "What's wrong, baby?" she asked. Matthew looked up at her, his eyes filled with tears. Molly reached for him, but he jerked back, and started bawling. Sherlock jumped up and scooped Matthew up, holding him comfortingly in his arms. "It's alright," Sherlock said. "We're going to put you back to bed." At this, Matthew cried even harder.

Molly tried to take him from Sherlock, but Matthew refused to let her touch him. In the end, Sherlock took Matthew back to bed.

When Sherlock came back out, he sat next to Molly. "Don't worry," he told her. "Matthew just had a bad dream. That's all it was. A bad dream."

_**Author's Note:**_

_GUYS! Chapter Fifty! I just want to give a shoutout to everyone who has been following this story since the beginning:_

•_AJP910_

•_Artemis-Hunt-Goddess_

•_Beeisnotonfire_

•_Charlotte Amelie_

•_DarkSummerBrightWinter92_

•_FredWeasley94_

•_GamerGirl1_

•_LilyMochaLatte_

•_Ms. Umbrella_

•_Sea-Otters-4-Life_

•_Succi_

•_Viivs0612_

•_Your Residential Sociopath_

•_enp_

•_fargtw_

•_sandrica_

•_veiieen_

•_whololly_

•_sherlolly-shipper-all-the-way_

_Now, I would like you all to review and tell me:_

_what your favorite chapter is so far_

_who your favorite character is so far_

_what your favorite sub-plot is_

_anything you'd like (in relation to the story)_

_Thank you guys so, so much for reading my story so far! I can't wait to see where this goes, and I'm so thrilled you guys will be able to see it, too! Review, for the sooner you do that, the sooner I'll post another chapter! XO Rusty Tater Tot_


	51. Chapter Fifty-One

It was a Saturday evening, and the Holmes family was preparing for dinner (coincidentally to be at the same restaurant that Sherlock revealed himself to John at). They got dressed up and, with Molly sitting in the back between Matthew and Brooklyn and Sherlock driving, off they went.

They sat at their table and ordered drinks. Molly sat across from Sherlock. "Enjoying yourself?" he asked her. Molly nodded with a smile. "It isn't everyday I get to have fun with my family in a place like this," she said.

At that moment, Matthew elbowed a plate that fell off the table, hitting the ground with a loud crack. It shattered, and Brooklyn, scared by the noise, burst into tears. "And this is why," Sherlock responded to Molly's words.

A waiter ran to where the family sat and started to clean up the mess. Another waiter came up with their drinks. Molly looked longingly at Sherlock's champagne. "It isn't good for your current condition," he told his wife. Molly looked at the children, now playing patty-cake over the candle, and said, "If and when they light this tablecloth on fire, I'm not going to be doing anything about it." With a sigh, Sherlock put his drink down.

A few seconds later Molly had another reason to want an alcoholic beverage - a clumsy waiter carrying a tray walked by her and stepped on her foot, causing her to lurch forward and spill her drink all over the floor.

"I'm so sorry, Mrs. Holmes," said the waiter, frantically trying to clean it up. Molly looked up at him and stared. The waiter, unaware, continued. "I'll go get you another drink," he said and rushed away. "Sherlock," Molly said to her husband. "Did you see that waiter?"

"Did I see him spill your drink?" asked Sherlock. "Yes." "No, that isn't what I meant. His face - he looked familiar." Sherlock looked up from his menu. "No, I didn't," he said, looking towards the kitchen which the waiter had disappeared into.

"Daddy?" said Matthew, tugging on Sherlock's coat sleeve. "I have to go to the bafwoom." Sherlock rose and took his son's hand. "We'll be back in a minute," he said to his wife and daughter, and together he and Matthew walked off.

Brooklyn was looking underneath the table and giggling, and after a moment Molly glanced under, as well. "Mary Brooklyn Holmes!" she said, her voice filled with surprise. Brooklyn's head shot up, and guilt covered her face. "Where did you get Daddy's phone?" her mother demanded.

Brooklyn shrugged. "From his pocket. He wasn't looking," she said. Molly stared at her for a moment and then erupted into laughter. A few diners nearby looked at them, but that didn't stop her from laughing.

A moment later, she felt a tap on her shoulder. "Here's your drink," said the waiter. Molly accepted it and looked into his eyes. She stopped. "Do I know you?" she asked the waiter. He smiled at her. "Drink up," he said encouragingly. She looked at her drink and, when she looked back up, the waiter had disappeared.

Sherlock came back, and the happy family finished the rest of their dinner in peace.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Sorry if this chapter isn't very clear - I needed it to be that way to explain the events of the next few chapters. Just a few things really quickly - I started a new story for anyone who's interested. It's called __Three Halves__, it's about the third Holmes child. No more information out of me! Also, feel free to follow my Instagram page! I post (squee) spoilers there! The name is Rusty_Tater_Tot._

_And to __Artemis-hunt-goddess__: Don't worry, my faithful reader! Your wish will come true in the next few chapters! Of course, you're going to hate my guts after those chapters, but you'll have received your wish (the one for more Moriarty)._

_Please don't hate me after the next chapter! I'm doing what needs to be done!_


	52. Chapter Fifty-Two

Molly was nervous. She was at the doctor's with Sherlock, and they were waiting for the doctor to bring them the ultrasound. Sherlock squeezed her hand.

"It'll be fine," he told his wife. "I'm here now." Molly smiled at him. "As long as this time it isn't multiples," she said. Sherlock chuckled. They both looked up as the door swung open.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes," began Doctor Walker. Molly looked at him as he spoke, but Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the piece of paper in the man's hands.

"Sometimes," the doctor said. "Sometimes, when a mother is suffering from a disease or an infection of sorts, there can be a bit of a constriction in the blood vessels connecting said mother and baby. This is called…" "Placental insufficiency," interrupted Sherlock. "But why tell us that?"

Doctor Walker sighed. "This is the most common cause of miscarriages in pregnancy," he explained. "But you wouldn't be telling us that unless…" the words were too terrible for Sherlock to finish his sentence. Doctor Walker hung his head. "I am so sorry," he whispered.

Molly had never cried so hard in her life, which was saying a lot. Not when her parents had died. Not when Sherlock had banished her from his life. Not when she left her baby behind in the hands of a man who she thought hated her. Not when she tore apart her own flesh. To her, nothing had been as painful as this was.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He drove them back to 221B Baker Street and walked his wife inside. Luckily, the children were at the Watson's, so Sherlock didn't have to explain why Mumma was crying.

Sherlock sat his wife down on the couch, walked into the kitchen, and put the kettle on to boil. When he turned around, Molly stood behind him. She was no longer crying, but her eyes were red and swollen and he could tell she felt miserable. "I'm making tea," he told her, but she didn't respond. Sherlock continued to brew the tea and soon set a boiling mug of it in front of the woman.

"Drink up," he told her with a smile. Molly took the cup and held it in her hands, staring deep into the swirling liquid. Sherlock turned away from her so that he wouldn't have to disguise the pain in his eyes.

Sherlock was sad, as well. Truly. He had wanted the child very much. He also knew how much Molly's sickness took out of her, and how her entire world seemed to be held back by it. This had distracted her. It would have continued to distract her for the rest of her life, and while Matthew and Brooklyn would have been enough, to have another reason to live snatched out of the palm of your hand… It was cruel.

Sherlock turned back around at the sound of the sob. Molly's face was buried in her hands, the tea left on the table in front of her. Sherlock sat down next to her and put his arm around her shoulder, and there they sat in the kitchen, Sherlock and Molly Holmes, mourning the non-existence of what could have been their third child.


	53. Chapter Fifty-Three

"_Sometimes, when the mother suffers from a disease…" the doctor was saying. Molly stood in the middle of the floor, which seemed to be growing around her. The white tile disappeared, only to be replaced by the fuzzy yellow carpeting in the twins' room. Twelve-somber faced men sat behind a long counter nearby, whispering among themselves quietly. A rapping noise silenced them, and Molly turned towards it to find Sherlock, holding a small wooden mallet. "The court of law finds this woman guilty… guilty… guilty," he said. Molly's eyes widened. "Sherlock?" she asked. The jury gasped. "Contempt in court!" one man declared. Sherlock's eyes found Molly's. "This woman is guilty of murdering her child," he said. "And her sentence shall be… Death by hanging." A gallows sprung up next to Sherlock, and Molly found herself being led up the steps. She stood astonished as the noose was placed around her neck. She was about to be pushed off when she heard it… a baby crying. "No!" she screamed in despair, right as she was shoved off and everything went dark._

Molly's eyes opened, and she quickly covered her mouth with a pillow so that her sobs wouldn't escape. It had been a week since the doctor's horrible news, and she spent much of her time in bed. The children were often over at the Watson's, and Sherlock stayed at the flat with Molly.

Molly desperately needed Sherlock, but she knew she didn't deserve him. And how was she fit to watch her own children, after being the cause of death in her unborn child? Molly had nightmares every time she closed her eyes, but even those were preferable to what she felt upon waking.

The door cracked open, and Sherlock stuck his head in. "Molly!" he said when he saw her. "You're awake." He came and sat down on the edge of their bed. Molly removed the pillow from her face so she could speak to him. "Yeah," she said. Her throat was dry.

Sherlock held out a cup of tea. "I thought you might be thirsty," he said. Molly didn't take it. Sherlock sighed. "Molly," he said to his wife, but he didn't say anything more. All Molly could think about was how her baby was probably thirsty, as well, but since Molly's condition caused such a scarcity in physical attachment, her child had literally starved to death.

"You have to eat, Molly," Sherlock said. Molly pressed her lips together and shook her head. "I can't, Sherlock," she told him. Sherlock sighed again. "Nonsense," he said. Molly hesitatingly took the mug from him. She held it to her mouth, but the second the warm liquid entered, her entire system rebelled and Molly had to run to the bathroom to violently vomit into the toilet.

Sherlock came and stood behind her. "Molly," he said once she stood up. He walked up to her and hugged her tightly to himself. Molly wept into his shoulder. "I just feel like it's all my fault, Sherlock," she said. Her voice was muffled.

"Oh, my dear Doctor Hooper." A voice rang out behind them. Sherlock let go and spun around to see who it was. As soon as he recognised the speaker, Sherlock roughly pushed Molly behind him.

"It's not your fault at all," said James Moriarty. "In fact, it's mine."


	54. Chapter Fifty-Four

Jim Moriarty stood in the living room of 221B Baker Street, holding his arms out. Sherlock stood in front of him with a gun pointed at the criminal's skull. Molly had disappeared into the bathroom again, locking the door behind her.

"What do you mean, it's all your fault?" demanded Sherlock, his voice raw. Moriarty laughed, a short, grating laugh. "Oh, Sherlock," he said with a grin. "How disappointing you are to me." Sherlock didn't move.

Moriarty turned, with his arms still extended, and walked over to the mantel. He looked at a picture placed right in the center, of Sherlock and Molly in their wedding attire with the twins clinging to their backs.

"So sweet," said Moriarty. He turned back to Sherlock. "Why didn't you tell me Molly was pregnant?" he asked. "I would have made the dosage less… fatal." Sherlock cocked the gun he was holding. "What do you mean?" he asked again.

Jim laughed. "I'm honestly a bit surprised she didn't recognise me," he said. "She dated me for two months." "What do you _mean_?" Sherlock insisted. Moriarty gave a fake sigh. "You're boring, you know that," he said. Sherlock didn't respond.

"I was the waiter," said Moriarty. "Duh." He rolled his eyes. "It was only a _little bit_ of poison," he said. "It was meant to make Molly sick. Nobody would've ever questioned it, 'cause of, you know, cancer. I suppose the baby absorbed it all and it killed it."

Sherlock remained a statue. Inside, however, he was a pit of broiling, seething anger. He was glad that Molly wasn't hearing any of Moriarty's words. "When I heard about the baby," he was saying. "I knew I just had to come out to offer my deepest sympathies."

In his mind, Sherlock could see the doctor's face as he told them that their child hadn't made it. He could see Molly sitting at the kitchen table, bawling her eyes - and heart - out over a cup of tea. He could see the questioning looks in his children's eyes as he told them, "Mum is sick."

Sherlock could also see the faces of all Moriarty had ever hurt. All the families he had ripped apart. Now it was Sherlock's.

He also saw Moriarty's face as Sherlock pulled the trigger. Jim fell to the ground, crumpled in a heap.

The bathroom door didn't open. Sherlock looked at it, and then down at the gun in his hands. He started down the hall towards the bathroom when the doorbell rang.

Swearing, he threw the gun onto the couch as he turned towards the door. He wrenched it open.

John stood outside. He looked furious. Standing next to him, soaking wet, was little Mikey. Mary and Ayana were nowhere to be seen. "John?" he asked. John looked up, and Sherlock saw the anger burning in his eyes.

"She left," he said, sounding hollow. "Mary took Ayana, packed up, and left."


	55. Chapter Fifty-Five

Sherlock tore through the flat, grabbing the twins' overnight bags and his own. "Molly," he said, knocking on the bathroom door. "I'm going out to help John for a little bit, and I'm taking the twins with me. I'll probably drop them off at Mycroft's for tonight and tomorrow, so you'll be by yourself for a bit. Is that okay?"

Sherlock could barely hear Molly's faint words through the door. "Are you okay?" he asked. He started to open the door. "Don't come in here!" Molly cried, slamming the door shut. "Molly?" Sherlock said. He rested his head on the doorframe. I'll be back soon, I promise. I'll be here."

"Go," said Molly. "I'm fine. I'll see you soon." As Sherlock turned away he could hear Molly softly weeping in the bathroom. "Alright, let's go," he said to John, who was clutching Mikey to himself, presumably to prevent him from seeing the body of Moriarty on the floor.

John looked up from the corpse, down the hall towards the tightly shut bathroom door. "Bad day?" he asked, his forehead wrinkling. "Let's just find Mary," Sherlock replied. He gently took Matthew and Brooklyn's hands and led them out the door.

"Did she have any reason to leave?" asked Sherlock two hours later. He stood in the middle of John's flat, looking for clues. "None that I can think of," said John. He had dropped Mikey at Mycroft's with the twins, knowing that Anthea would watch him.

Sherlock lifted the afghan lying on the sofa. "Did you fight?" he asked. John shook his head. "No," he replied. "We went out for lunch and had a fine time. We got back and she said she was going to put the baby down for a nap, and when I went in about ten minutes later, she was gone."

Sherlock paused. "How did she leave the flat?" he asked. "Window in Ayana's room," said John. Sherlock nodded. "Show me," he said.

Right at that moment, his phone buzzed. "Hello?" he said, picking up. "Hello, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson. "Could you be a bit quieter, dear? Mrs. Conroy from down the street is over, we're having tea, and it's very distracting to hear all sorts of strange noises from up there. I tried to knock, but there was no answer. It sounds like you're drowning a cat, and it's not making for very pleasant background noise, because we're trying to have a conversation and -"

"I'm not home, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock interrupted. There was silence from the other end, then Mrs. Hudson asked, "Well, is it possible you're being robbed?" "No, Molly's there," Sherlock replied. The line went quiet again. It made Sherlock uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hudson?" he asked. "It sounds so horrible," she whispered.

"Like what?" Sherlock questioned her. "Glass breaking and thuds and clinking and these unearthly howls. I swear Mrs. Conroy will think we're haunted, and you know how she likes to gossip, we can't have anything -" "Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "I need you to go upstairs, knock on the door, and tell Molly I'd like to talk to her."

"But I told you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said. "She won't open the door."

"Sorry, John," Sherlock said to his best friend. "I have to leave. Something's happening with Molly. Or I'm getting robbed. Honestly, I'm hoping for the second one."

He hailed a cab and raced towards Baker Street. Once he got there he tore up the stairs and wrenched open the door.

The flat was a mess. There was broken glass, and all the books had been torn off of the shelves. The headphones had been ripped off of his Bison skull. "That seems a bit far, don't you think?" said John, touching the headphones lying on the ground. Sherlock reached up and peered into the small hollow he had indented into the skull, previously hidden behind the headphones. Empty.

"Molly!" Sherlock spun around, looking for a clue, anything that might signify what his wife had done. "Sherlock," said John slowly. Sherlock turned to where John kneeled on the ground. John held up the headphones. On one of the ears, there was a small dab of blood.

"Molly!" Sherlock bellowed again, racing down the hall towards the bathroom. He pounded on the door, but there was no response. Sherlock placed his ear against the door and listened intently. He could hear water running. "Careful," warned John as Sherlock backed up.

Sherlock didn't listen. He threw himself against the door with all the strength he had, and it worked. The door fell to the ground. Sherlock stepped into the bathroom.

Water was pouring from all faucets, but it wasn't the only thing pouring. Blood was pouring from fresh scars, all over Molly's arms, legs, and even her face. She lay on the ground, pale as snow. "Oh, Molly," Sherlock said as he bent down next to her crumpled body. He grabbed her wrist, and, maneuvering around the bloody cuts, he took her pulse. It was weak. "She's lost a lot of blood," said John. "We need to get her to the hospital," said Sherlock, lifting Molly with him as he rose.

"Didn't this happen while she was in college?" asked John. "Not this, John," said Sherlock. "She had to go to the hospital. Blood loss," said John. Sherlock shook his head and tossed John a small, white bottle. "Drugs," he said. "I kept them in my Bison skull." John looked up, aghast. "You lied, you told me you were -"

"That was full this morning," Sherlock interrupted him. John unscrewed the lid on the bottle. "Empty," he said, peering inside. "But that means…" "This is no accident," said Sherlock.


	56. Chapter Fifty-Six

The hospital was buzzing with activity, but all noises were muted to Sherlock Holmes. The only thing he could focus on was his wife's face as the doctors prepared to pump her stomach.

"Bloody hell," John muttered as a nurse cleaned the blood off of her wrists. If Sherlock could speak, he probably would have said the same thing.

Huge, bloody gashes were buried deep, deep into Molly's flesh, still gushing blood. "Is that…?" John started to speak, but stopped. Sherlock couldn't tear his eyes away from the white glaring out from beneath all the blood. "Her bone," he said faintly.

"Bloody hell," John said again. "Bloody hell, Sherlock, what happened?" "It was him," whispered Sherlock. "It was Moriarty, he wanted to hurt us and he killed the baby." John caught his breath.

They both stood in absolute silence for a minute or two. "If only Mary were here," said John, rubbing his temples. "She couldn't have prevented this," Sherlock replied. "Molly is broken, she has been for years. It's an addiction, and it isn't something a simple _promise_," he snarled the word, "would stop."

John paused. "That's right," he said. "She promised you…" "It obviously didn't mean anything," Sherlock interrupted. "_I_ obviously don't mean anything." John shook his head. "Sherlock, you know that's not true."

Sherlock turned to look at him. "It can't work, John," he said simply. "The pathologist and the detective, a fairy-tale. I was never meant to have a happy ending, but she deserves it. She will always be in danger when I am with her, and I can't let that happen."

Sherlock buried his face in his hands. "I can't do it," he said. "I am married to my work. I thought I could make it happen, I thought I could give Molly Hooper what she wanted, but I can't, and I'm only ever going to hurt her."

"Molly… Hooper?" John ventured to ask. Sherlock grew still. "I meant to say Molly Holmes," he said, "but it doesn't sound right now. It'll be Molly Hooper again before long, I'm sure of it."

John stayed quiet, and the two friends sat in silence, staring at the white hospital wall.

_**Author's Note:**_

_Sorry for the short chapter, but I'm about to post another one, so..._


	57. Chapter Fifty-Seven

A week later John went to visit Molly in the hospital, to help her pack up and move out. He knew Sherlock had gone to see her the night before, and he wanted to make sure everything was okay.

He found her sitting on her bed crying.

"Molly?" he asked. Molly lifted her head. "John," she said wearily. "Here," said John lamely. "Let me help you with that." He reached for the bag sitting next to her, but she jerked her hand out, causing him to have to set it down.

"Everything okay?" he asked, followed by immediately inwardly cursing himself for such a dumb question. To his surprise, Molly nodded her head and gave a small smile. "Of course I am," she said. She rose and pulled the bag over her shoulder.

She left the room without looking back. John followed her out, and saw as a small piece of folded paper fell out of her pocket. "Molly," he started to say as he bent to pick it up. He suddenly fell short as he examined it.

"Bloody hell," he said, and he turned the other way and ran.

"What's this?" Sherlock asked, barely looking up from his microscope. John held out the paper impatiently. "Look," he insisted. Sherlock sighed and took it from him. "It's an x-ray," he said simply. "Of Molly's brain. Nothing special."

"But?" John persisted. Sherlock's eyes ran over it again. "The tumour is in the wrong spot," he said. John shook his head. "No, Sherlock." Sherlock looked up. "What?" he asked sharply. "What's happened?"

John bent down to the paper. "That's not the tumour, Sherlock," he said. "That's what's left of her mind - the part of it that isn't being eaten by the tumour."

_**Author's Note:**_

_Sorry for the short chapter - the next one should be much, much longer._


	58. Chapter Fifty-Eight

_**This chapter is dedicated to **__**Ms. Umbrella**__** and everybody else who has been pleading with me for a happy ending to at least one chapter.**_

Molly lay on her side, staring at the blank tan wall. She was in a hotel room, somewhere in the midst of London. She had been there since she left the hospital the evening before, and so far, nobody had made any attempts to contact her.

"I don't care," she told herself, and she tried to believe it. "I don't care that I'll probably never see my husband or my children again," she said. "I don't care that I'll never pet Toby, or braid Brooklyn's hair, or eat lunch with Mary. I'll probably never touch a dead body again - no complaints there."

Molly spoke very softly, despite there being nobody in the room with her. In her heart of hearts, Molly knew that she was going to die. She'd never experienced anything quite like it before - she'd felt the desire, the raging, bitter desire to end her life, but there had never been a time she'd felt the weight. It was nothing serious, but it hung over her like a dark cloud. She knew it was there, and she knew what it meant.

"How long do I have?" she'd asked the doctors. "Well, you can never be too certain in these cases," they'd replied. "You could have as long as a couple of years." Molly knew they were sugarcoating it. She'd begged to be let out, pleaded with them. Finally, they'd released her, mainly because "there's nothing we can do for you at this point."

Sherlock hadn't picked her up. She hadn't heard Matthew asking, "Are you feeling better, Mumma?" Brooklyn hadn't curled up in her lap on the way home. Instead, Molly walked. She had enjoyed the cool night air, but the feeling disappeared as soon as she entered 221B Baker Street. It was empty.

"Gone to the park," Mrs. Hudson had said, and Molly had nodded with a smile. She ran up the stairs, packed up a few items of clothing, and left the flat. She didn't write a note to leave behind, nothing for her children to keep to remember her. She knew from experience that notes were nothing but anchors, remnants of a chapter closed, something that would always hold the beloved back.

So there she was, in a hotel room, wasting the last bits of her life by herself. "I should've guessed," she said. "I should've known that happiness was nothing I could take with me." She knew that if Sherlock wanted to find her, he would. But he hadn't.

"I guess we know what that means," she told herself, and, wiping off her tears, she rolled off her bed and looked at herself in the mirror above the chest of drawers. "You're pathetic," she said simply, and then she pulled open the top drawer.

Inside was a small knife and a bottle of pills.

Molly took deep, calming breaths. She removed both items from the drawer and set them on the desk. She sat down, looking at the pad of paper that rested on the wooden surface. "Notes might be anchors," she said, "but they need something. I owe them a goodbye, at least."

Molly picked up the paper and began to write.

_To my family:_

_I'm sorry it had to end this way, but it's so much easier now._

_To John:_

_Thank you - thank you for helping Sherlock when I couldn't. Thank you for taking care of him when I left. Thank you for keeping him alive._

_To Mary - thank you for being my friend through life. Thank you for helping me through my pregnancy, thank you for helping Sherlock raise his daughter, thank you for being there for me. I hope you read this someday. I guess I still don't know whether or not you've come back yet. I hope, if you do come back, you can help Sherlock the same way you have been._

_To Brooklyn - my beautiful baby girl. I remember how much I loved you, even though I only held you twice before leaving you to grow up alone. I loved you so much, and when I came back I promised I would never leave you again. I have to break that promise, but I hope you don't think badly of me. I love you so, so much, now and forever. You will always be beautiful. Remember that, please._

_To Matthew - I love you so much. I love you with all of my heart, and you will always be my son, even if I can't be there for you. You're a Holmes through and through, but I hope you remember that a little bit of me went into you. I will always love you, and your father will, too. Remember that._

_To Sherlock - I loved you since the day I met you, and I would have died for you. I did die for you, all those years ago, but I would do it again with all of my heart. I'm sorry it had to end like this. I'm sorry that I had to come and go like this, leaving a blight but no more. Please take care of my babies. All three of you._

_I love all of you. Every single one. I'm sorry._

_Xx,_

_Molly Holmes_

Molly signed the note and folded it with care. She slipped it into an envelope and marked it: "To everyone."

She opened the pill bottle and poured the contents into her hands. She looked lovingly down at the white-coated pills resting in her palms. Her salvation.

"I'm sorry," she whispered - to her parents, to her friends, to her children, to Sherlock, and to herself, and she slowly raised her hands to her mouth.

Suddenly, frantic knocking sounded at the door. Molly looked up, startled, before looking back at her hand. She ignored the anxious knocking. A moment later, however, she looked back up. The door had splintered open, and a harried looking Sherlock Holmes burst in.

"Molly!" he exclaimed, and he stared at her as she sat on the bed, the note next to her, the pills piled high in her hands.

"Molly!" he said again, and he ran to her side. Molly looked into his big blue eyes and couldn't help but bursting into tears. "It's okay, Molly," Sherlock said, and he sank down next to her. He pulled her into his arms and sat, rocking her back and forth.

"It's going to be okay," he said. "I'm here now, I'm going to take care of you. It's going to be okay." And for that second, Molly believed him.


	59. Chapter Fifty-Nine

Everything changed when Molly went back to Baker Street. She didn't know why, but everyone was quieter… Almost solemn. Brooklyn laughed as usual, but it seemed hollow, forced. Matthew wobbled around in his mute way, but his silence was eerie. And Sherlock… Sherlock was Sherlock. What wasn't strange about that?

Despite all these things, Molly enjoyed being home tremendously. She was never lonely, and being in the company of her family made her feel rejuvenated. She played games with the twins, and watched 'crap' telly with Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson had tea with her at least twice a week, and John came over with Mikey quite often.

Of all the things wrong in her life, the saddest thing to Molly was Mary's disappearance. Her best friend had left, taking her baby with her, and there was nothing Molly could do about it. She only wished she could have helped Mary as Mary helped her.

But this wasn't all that oppressed Molly. Despite being back at home, comfortable and warm, living in the love of her family, Molly was still ill. It seemed every day she got a little worse. "It'll be alright," she often said, to her family and to herself. Sherlock, who had been blinded by love for so long, never noticed that Molly was weaning herself off of this life she had built. The baby had been one of the many things to pull her back in, and the miscarriage had spat her out.

In short, Molly was dying, and everybody knew it. The tumour slowly ate its way through her brain, leaving her exhausted and frail. Still she smiled. "I smiled through my childhood, nothing wrong with that," she said. "I smiled through my teen years, despite all that happened then. I smiled in Uni, except for those few months a little after you… left. I smiled through an adulthood where I went to work with dead bodies every morning and came back at night to feed my cat and go to bed. I smiled through my pregnancy. I smiled to Matthew everyday when he walked into my kitchen in my otherwise empty flat, despite how much he reminded me of the family I had left behind. I smiled through our wedding. There's no reason I shouldn't smile through this."

Smiling was nice, but Sherlock knew it wouldn't stop the inevitable. Molly knew it as well. One day, when Molly was feeling especially sick, she begged him to take the children to the park. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have left her side and he especially wouldn't arrange a family activity without her, but she wouldn't stop pleading until he promised.

When he came home, he found her sitting on the bedroom floor wrapping gifts. "Molly," he said. "It's June. There are no holidays or anniversaries coming up." "No," replied Molly. "These are for the birthdays to come. This," and she held up the package she had been wrapping when Sherlock entered, "is for the twins' sixteenth birthday." Sherlock quietly took it from her.

"There's a note to go with it," she said softly, and she slipped the note onto the tissue paper. Sherlock looked over the pile next to her, each carefully and lovingly wrapped and tied up with a bow, and at the envelopes on each one.

"I want them to know I remembered them," Molly whispered. "They will," said Sherlock. "I'll make sure of that." "Thank you," Molly said with a smile, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice how her clothes hung off of her, how pale her skin was. The disease inside was taking its toll, and Molly had been fighting it long and hard.

He gave his wife a hug. She leaned into him, burying her face in his shoulder. They sat like that for a few moments before Molly said, "It's going to be alright, Sherlock." In his mind, Sherlock was screaming, "No, it's not!" but he refused to say this out loud. Saying it would make it the truth. Instead he nodded, not letting go of Molly, and looking over her head at the painting on the wall.

It was the same picture from their wedding, the one with the entire family at the playground. Molly looked so happy, so healthy, nothing like sickly woman who now knelt in front of him. A few seconds later there was a knock at the door. "Mommy, Daddy?" a small voice asked. The two adults looked towards the doorway to see Brooklyn standing there, dragging her small toy ballerina behind her. Matthew stood there as well, looking at nothing in particular.

"Will you watch a movie with us?" asked Brooklyn. Molly smiled and rose to her feet. There was a time when she could've pulled Sherlock to his feet with her, but she was too weak for that now. "Sure," she said cheerfully. She walked a step before looking back at Sherlock.

"Coming, Daddy?" she asked with a big grin. "Sure," said Sherlock as he, too, stood up. He walked to Molly and wrapped his arm around her thin waist, offering her the support he knew she needed. "I'll even make popcorn," he said, and they all left the dark bedroom.

_**Please Read the Author's Note!**_

_**Author's Note:**_

_Hey, guys! Towards the beginning of this story, I would get messages saying, "I'm dreading the end of this story…" I recall responding with the words, "I'm really enjoying writing this, and I don't see the end anytime soon."_

_That was many, many chapters ago and as we've travelled this weary road, I've been horrified at every bend, horrified that around the next corner I might see it. The end._

_Fortunately, as the author, I had the power to control when it would come. As the author, I have decided to prevent its arrival for almost sixty chapters now!_

_Unfortunately, there's been another twist in Molly's road, and soon I'll be going around another corner as I write the next few chapters. I don't know what's coming. I just thought you should be warned - I'm not writing as a mother who loves her children and would sacrifice everything to save them. I'm writing as an author who may or may not be deathly close to the finish line._

_I'm sorry in advance for what the next chapters might bring - whether it be the closing of this story or the postponing of the inevitable. I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate it either way - killing someone important to the storyline, thus ending it, or keeping said person alive and giving you a few more chapters you have to read to quench the burning sensation of an unfinished story._

_IMPORTANT:_

_Whether or not this story ends soon, I'm starting a new story soon. It's the sequel to this story. I know some of you might say, " 'Whether or not' - this is called __The Story of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes__, without one of them there would be no story," and you are right. The next story is the next generation, fondly referred to by me as __Brooklyn's Battles__. I have written a prologue for this story and I will be posting it on my page. The plot is, somewhat obviously, Brooklyn's life story, narrated by Brooklyn, as she grows up - with or without Molly._

_It will be in written in the form of a diary, so if you're uninterested in this type of story, I apologise. I'm fairly certain that I will continue this new series of stories, which, no matter how it ends, will have always started out with the woman who always counted - Molly Hooper Holmes._

_No matter what happens, I love you all! Thank you for being the best readers in the world!_

_~Rusty Tater Tot_


	60. Chapter Sixty

Molly lay in her bed. She was smiling, but her face was deathly pale. Sherlock clutched her hand like a lifeline, and Brooklyn lay next to her, weeping. Matthew sat in the corner silently.

"It's alright, sweety, it'll all be fine," said Molly, and nobody was sure if she was talking to Brooklyn, Sherlock, Matthew, or even herself. Brooklyn cried even harder at her words. "No, it won't!" she screamed. Molly looked helplessly at Sherlock, but even he seemed to be at a loss for words.

"Hush, love," Molly whispered to Brooklyn. "It isn't the end of the world; you're going to have so much fun." This didn't calm Brooklyn. "I wish it were the end of the world," she sniffled. "You need to have fun _with _me!"

Molly rubbed her back. "I've already had my turn, baby girl," she said. "I've had so much fun with you already, and I know that you'll have even more fun. And I wouldn't change it for the world. " Brooklyn, however, was inconsolable.

Sherlock hadn't said a word the entire day. He stayed by Molly's side, rubbing her wrist where the scars spelled out his name.

_SHERLOCK_

And he couldn't help but wonder how differently things might have turned out for her if he'd been there for her. "We could have had forever, you know," he said softly. She closed her eyes. "Wouldn't have changed it for the world," she mumbled again.

Matthew stumbled over and squeezed his eyes tightly shut. "I still don't understand, Mumma," he said. Even through all of the years, he kept his pet name for his mother. "Where are you going?"

Molly smiled through her tears. "Mumma's going to heaven," she said, stroking her son's cheek. "Why can't you stay here with us?" he asked in the forlorn voice that only a five-year old can use.

Molly shook her head. "I would if I could, because I love you so much. Mumma loves you." Sherlock could see the effort she was making and broke in to help her. "Mum is sick," he said to his two small children. "She's sick, and going to heaven will make her better."

"Is heaven like a hospital?" asked Brooklyn, watching her father for the answer. Even as small children, they were very intuitive. Sherlock nodded. "Yes," he said. "Mum won't be sick there."

"So she can come back to us!" said Matthew brightly, and Brooklyn cheered. Sherlock closed his eyes. They had explained it many times, Sherlock and Molly, but part of the twins' minds just couldn't accept it.

Molly smiled at her daughter. "I can't come back to give you a hug, sweetheart," she said. "But I can come back in your dreams to tuck you in." Brooklyn nodded. "And you'll always be in my mind palace," she said. Matthew nodded. "Mine too," he added.

The children sat and talked quietly between themselves. Sherlock knelt by Molly's head and laid his own face next to hers. "When you think of me," she whispered, "think of me years ago, before the Fall, when I worked in the morgue and I helped you." She smiled. Sherlock smiled, too, but it was short and bitter.

"I wish that you'd never been hurt. Not by me, not by sickness, not by anything," he said, and in those words was all of the hurt and sadness that had dwelled inside of him for his whole life.

"What, and pass up the opportunity to be comforted by you?" asked Molly. She took a deep breath. "Give them a kiss from me every day," she said, and Sherlock nodded. "I love you," he said to his wife.

Tears dripped down Molly's cheeks. "I love you, too," she said, and, rolling over, she gathered Matthew and Brooklyn into a hug. Sherlock joined them.

"I love all of you so much," she said. "You've all been so strong through this." Brooklyn and Matthew stayed still, listening to their mother's voice. "Tomorrow morning, I won't be here," said Molly in her soft voice. "And you will. You all will. You'll be sad and you won't feel like doing much of anything.

"Time will pass, and eventually, you'll be happier. You'll take care of each other."

Everyone was silent. Molly looked Sherlock in the eye and said quietly, "This dying is boring." Sherlock couldn't find it in him to laugh.

A little while later, when the children were in bed, Molly and Sherlock lay quietly talking between themselves. "You've always counted to me more than anyone in the world," he said to her. "We were supposed to grow old together."

Molly laughed. "Isn't this old enough?" she asked. "I've known you my whole life. That's a good thirty-seven years right there." Sherlock chuckled, too. "Not long enough," he said. "But you'll live," said Molly. "I don't know," said Sherlock. "No, you will," said Molly, sounding certain.

"You'll live and you'll deduce and you'll solve crimes and you'll be the best Sherlock Holmes you can be." "Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, father, and husband," said Sherlock. "Mmm," said Molly, "I remember those words," she said.

Sherlock sighed. "Who'd have thought that, three years from that night, we'd be here?" he contemplated. "All lives end, Sherlock," said Molly. "All hearts are broken." "Including yours," said Sherlock bitterly. "Caring is and always has been what's protected you," said Molly.

Sherlock said nothing, so she continued. "Caring makes you human." "What if I don't want to be human?" Sherlock asked suddenly. Molly exhaled. "Human is what you are, whether you like it or not," she said. "I didn't marry Sherlock Holmes, emotionless machine. I married Sherlock Holmes. A human."

Sherlock kissed her forehead. "And I married the best woman ever to walk the earth," he said. Molly smiled in the darkness. "The _luckiest _woman," she corrected him. Sherlock grinned. "Well," he said, thinking. "Yeah."

Molly sighed deeply. "What will you do?" she asked. They'd had the conversation many times before, but she could never help but bring it up again. "I don't know," said Sherlock heavily. "I never did know."

"You take care of them," she said. "Of course," Sherlock replied. "Honestly, what kind of father do you think I am?" "A grieving one," said Molly. "But I don't want you to grieve. I just want you to live and be the best you you can be."

"Now you're just trying to sound like an inspirational poster," said Sherlock. Molly laughed, but it wasn't full of the knowledge, joy, and love it once had been - it was empty, short, and pained.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," said Molly. "And I love you, Molly Holmes," said Sherlock, and they both fell asleep… one of them never to wake up again.


	61. Sneak Peek to Brooklyn's Battles

Brooklyn Holmes sat sideways in her chair, her bare feet sticking over the armrest. Her soft brown hair, once curly, was messily braided and pulled over one shoulder. She was intently writing in a small, leather-bound notebook. Sherlock sat nearby, reading a book of his own.

"Hey, Dad," Matthew said as he entered the room. Sherlock looked up. Brooklyn didn't. Matthew took a deep breath. "I need you to sign something." He held out his hand, and in it was a small slip of paper. Sherlock took it from him.

"You're failing?" he asked, looking at the card. "Just the one subject," said Matthew. "English," Sherlock replied. "You're failing English?" Brooklyn looked up.

"Straight A's in every subject except for English?" Sherlock questioned. Brooklyn could almost hear her twin's internal sigh. "Geez, Dad," said Matthew jokingly. "For a genius, it sure is taking you a long time to get this."

"Why are you failing?" Sherlock asked. Matthew thought for a moment, considering his response. Before he could open his mouth, however, Brooklyn spoke. "We're writing about family this quarter," she said. Sherlock looked at her.

Ever since their mother had died ten years before, Sherlock had been very considerate of the twins' fragile dispositions on family. More than once he had offered to home-school them, which, he said, would help them get accustomed to the Holmes' lifestyle and also help them to harness their genius.

However, at their request, Sherlock had left the twins in public school, where rather than learning about things like math, science or history - which they knew like the backs of their hands - they learned about human nature and friendships and how to socialise. Sherlock was quite alright with this, but he did insist they did the best they could in every subject.

Only once before had their tragic past with their mother been mixed with their education, and that had been seven years prior, when the Matthew and Brooklyn were nine years old and in fifth grade. They had been required to fill in a journal about their family life, and Matthew, very literal, had written 'Mom's body died three years ago. Her mind died a lifetime ago - she killed it with bad thoughts. And Dad is just Dad - he's famous, brilliant, and a prick. Then there's me and Brooklyn - we're the cute ones."

Now Sherlock remembered this, and he thought once again how painful it must be for his children to grow up without a normal mother to care for them. "Not that Molly was normal," he thought to himself. "She did marry me." He smiled at the thought, and, without another word, signed the report card and handed it back to Matthew. He looked at Brooklyn, who was once again writing in her journal.

"What about you?" he asked. "Do you need me to sign anything?" Brooklyn shook her head, not looking up from her book. It wasn't a lie. She didn't need Sherlock to sign anything.

"No," she said. "I'm all good." Sherlock returned to his book and Matthew, with a load off of his mind, plopped down onto the floor beside Brooklyn. "You know," he said to his twin sister, "I just realised something."

"Oh?" asked Brooklyn, not looking up from her journal. "I realised that you are _always_ writing in that book." "Yes," Brooklyn replied. "It's a journal." "You mean a diary?" teased Matthew. "Of course not," Brooklyn snapped back. "A diary is a silly name for a small book young girls get attached to and consider 'their only friends.' I have other friends, I'm not attached to this _journal_, and it most certainly isn't small. It's merely a book that I record things in so that I don't forget them."

"Oh, so you read it?" asked Matthew. "Of course I read it," said Brooklyn. Matthew nodded. "When was the last time you actually read it - the beginning of it, I mean?" he challenged. Brooklyn looked up. "I… I don't remember," she said confusedly. "You write in it every day," said Matthew, "but you probably don't even remember how it begins."

With that, he stood up and returned to his room, leaving Brooklyn with her journal. She sat still for a moment before opening the book in her lap to the very first page.

With a sigh, Mary Brooklyn Holmes settled back into her seat and began to read.


	62. Thank You and Goodbye for Now!

_**The Final Author's Note:**_

_Hello, my dear, dear readers! First off, I want to thank each and every one of you for sticking with me this far! This story has been a good bit longer than expected - to be honest, I expected Molly to die in chapter seven when she attempted suicide! But she didn't, and here we are, fifty-three chapters later! I'm sorry for making it so lengthy, but I'm thrilled at all the followers, favoriters, reviewers, and really, everyone who read it at all!_

_Shoutouts to:_

_AJP910_

_AnnaCromwell_

_Artemis-hunt-goddess_

_Beeisnotonfire_

_Charlotte Amelie_

_DarkSummerBrightWinter92_

_FredWeasley94_

_Lana Abernathy83_

_LilyMochaLatte_

_Ms. Umbrella_

_Sea-Otters-4-Life_

_Succi_

_TheAquwardSquid_

_Viivs0612_

_Your Residential Sociopath_

_boardwalkblue_

_enp_

_fargtw_

_goddess1903_

_nicolageorge511999_

_sandrica_

_veiieen_

_whololly_

_sherlollyshipperalltheway_

_I could not have done it without your support, guys! I love you so much!_

_I really hope you will all continue to follow the journey of the remaining Holmes in my next story, __Brooklyn's Battles__!_

_I hope to see you there!_

_Thank you so, so much! I love you to death and back!_

_Xx, Rusty Tater Tot_

_(aka Moffat, because you guys are probably still mad at me)_


	63. MAJOR UPDATE TO EVERYONE

_**ATTENTION ALL READERS (past, present or future):**_

_**I AM DISSATISFIED WITH THIS STORY. I WILL BE RE-WRITING IT UNDER A DIFFERENT NAME:**_

_The Way Things Should Have Been_

**_There shouldn't be too many drastic changes, just a few things tweaked and cleared up. However, there will be one MAJOR plot twist, so if you enjoyed this and want to re-feel all that drama, by all means, read my story._**

**_Much love,_**

**_Rusty Tater Tot_**


End file.
